


Moonlight Made

by Zimario



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU Year 6, AU Year 7, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Age Difference, F/M, Hermione is 17, Knotting, Now there's a plot, Porn With Plot, Sirius is not dead, Werewolf Mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:26:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimario/pseuds/Zimario
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When did you find out that I was--um...” Hermione trailed off uncomfortably. <i>Mate.</i> The word was so strange, so animalistic. She thought she might die of embarrassment if she tried to say it out loud. “When did you realize?”</p><p>--</p><p>Visiting Grimmauld Place over Easter hols, Hermione is surprised with some unsettling news.</p><p> </p><p>[Abandoned]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**24 March, 1997**  
  
They were alone.  
  
Lupin wasn’t looking at her. Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, he was staring at the flickering fire. His entire body was tight with tension.  
  
“So, um,” Hermione began awkwardly. The initial mortification had passed, or at least, she’d contained it with her usual ability to compartmentalize. The embarrassment and shock still lingered in the flush of her face, but it was manageable. She could manage. “Can I ask some questions?”  
  
The corner of his mouth quirked up, but the sign of levity disappeared quickly. He nodded his head, still refusing to look in her direction, and then cleared his throat. “Of course. I’ll--I’ll answer any questions you have. Truthfully.”  
  
“When did you find out that I was--um...” Hermione trailed off uncomfortably. _Mate_. The word was so strange, so animalistic. She thought she might die of embarrassment if she tried to say it out loud. “When did you realize?”  
  
He expelled a heavy breath. “Immediately. On the Express.”  
  
That was not the answer she was expecting. She could feel the hot flush rising up her chest and face and she had to swallow before she could speak. “In my--during third year?”  
  
She watched his shoulders slump a little and could see the signs of his own humiliation in the angle of his body. “Yes. I never--it manifested as, um, protective instincts only,” he continued, stumbling over his words uncharacteristically.  
  
Hermione cringed for him. How awful, to be a thirty-five year old man and realize that a thirteen-year old girl was his destined...partner. _Mate_.  
  
“But they’re not--you don’t feel just protective now?” Hermione asked before she could stop herself.  
  
He immediately stiffened and Hermione tried to backtrack. “Oh god--I’m sorry--I didn’t mean to--”  
  
He shook his head, silencing her immediately. “It’s, ah, it’s fine.” While it was hard to tell against the orange light of the fire, Hermione thought she saw his face flush. “No, it’s not just protective instincts now,” he continued quietly, and she could tell he was attempting to sound as clinical and detached as possible. “I feel extremely territorial. There is extreme--ah--extreme emotional and physical attraction. As you’ve no doubt already guessed, even with Wolfsbane, my... ah, the transformations are particularly violent and distressing, especially if you’re nearby, but not close to me--to the wolf.”  
  
A mixture of renewed embarrassment--god, he’d just admitted to “extreme physical attraction” to her!--and guilt and sadness welled up in her breast before she could tamp it down. “What do you mean, even with Wolfsbane? Has it stopped working?”  
  
He leaned back in response to her questions, raised his hand to his face and rubbed his eyes tiredly, his legs splayed out. “Not exactly. It’s just that--my instincts are increased, heightened, in my wolf form, and even under the influence of Wolfsbane it’s very difficult to ignore them. Hence, ah, what happened last night.”  
  
“You mean you--you were aware...while you were...?”  
  
“Throwing myself against the door and howling like mad?” He finished for her, and she was not surprised to hear some self-loathing mixed with his attempt at a wry retort. “Yes. It can be--last night was challenging.”  
  
“Professor, I’m--”  
  
“God, please don’t call me that,” he interrupted her sharply, sounding miserable.  
  
Hermione clamped her mouth shut. Of course. No wonder he’d been so insistent on her and Ron and Harry calling him by his given name since seeing him again.  
  
“Sorry,” she managed in a small voice.  
  
He waved a hand at her, still massaging his temple with the other one. “No, it’s fine. You have nothing to be sorry for. I was your professor, after all,” he said somewhat bitterly.  
  
“There’s nothing--you can’t control this,” Hermione began slowly. “It’s not your fault. I’m not--I’m not upset, or anything, it’s just--”  
  
She broke off when she realized that he was staring at her, mouth hanging open in something like astonishment.  
  
“What do you mean, you’re not upset? You’ve just learned--I’m twice your age, Hermione, and a bleeding _werewolf_ that can’t control himself--”  
  
Hermione felt a sudden need to defend him, even against himself. “You’re controlling yourself right now,” she pointed out rationally. “And this _isn’t_ your fault. It’s hormonal, right?”  
  
“Yes, it’s hormonal, and instinctual, like every bloody thing about my bloody life,” he growled angrily, and she could tell he was speaking mostly to himself. She’d never even imagined him swearing, much less three times in two sentences.  
  
The sound of his anger, the crack in his usually calm facade, was strangely pleasing. It seemed like he really was being honest, and the frustration he clearly felt made Hermione terribly sad.  
  
“Technically, we’re all just products of our hormones and instincts,” she said, trying to be helpful. “It’s just that yours are a little different.”  
  
He scoffed at her. “I’m an _animal_ , is what you’re saying.”  
  
“What? No!”  
  
“Yes, I am,” he spat angrily, rising from his chair in a sudden burst of movement and striding towards the fire, reaching for the poker and stoking the burning logs with sharp, uncontrolled jabs. “It’s all I’ve ever been. Dress me up like a man, give me a wand, give me shoes and a robe and a bloody Gryffindor tie and the whole charade falls to fucking pieces the moment I get the chance to fight, feed, or fuck. Do you understand that?” he spat out, whirling around to face her.  
  
His eyes glinted strangely yellow in the darkened room. “All I want to--all I can bloody think about is getting inside you and making you _mine_ , permanently, completely. I’d do it right now if I could, push you down on your hands and knees and fuck you raw.”  
  
The brutal language shocked her silent. His harsh breathing was louder than the crackling flames.  
  
 _That’s what he wants. He wants to scare you._  
  
Hermione swallowed, keeping her gaze on his chest, which was rising and falling rapidly. “Why haven’t you, then?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Why haven’t you pushed me down and--”  
  
He cut her off with a strangled, choked cry, whipping away from the fire to face the bookshelf, both hands gripping a shelf as he leaned his weight against his. Was it her imagination, or were his arms trembling?  
  
 _I’d do it right now if I could, push you down on your hands and knees and fuck you raw._  
  
It felt wrong--forbidden--but somehow honest heat had found its way to her through the mire of mortification and violent words that he had spewed at her. The crush she’d nursed on him since her third year, since spending time with him again the summer before fifth year--it expanded in her chest.  
  
 _Mate_.  
  
Was it more than a crush? More than simple respect for his intelligence and bravery, for his stoicism in the face of an awful curse? Was it something in her that responded to the instinctual knowledge he’d had since encountering her for the first time, that they were somehow _meant_ for each other?  
  
“I would never--I would _never_ force you. Ever,” he said in a low, hard rasp. “I swear it.” Every word seemed to claw its way out of his throat, and the misery and loathing and tension in him was palpable in the air.  
  
“That’s not very like an animal,” said Hermione quietly. “That sounds like you have more self-discipline and self-mastery than anyone I know.”  
  
There was a heartbeat of silence before Lupin sagged against the bookshelf, pressing his forehead against the leather-bound tomes. His eyes were shut tight. “God--you don’t know--you don’t understand--”  
  
The intensity of his reaction to her reassurance grew her confidence. Hermione leaned forward, her hands in her lap. “Explain it, then. What does being a mate mean?”  
  
The word fell easily, naturally from her lips. She shivered a bit at the implication.  
  
He stilled. “Not just--not just a mate, Hermione,” he said, still not facing her. “ _My_ mate. _Mine_.”  
  
 _All I can bloody think about is getting inside you and making you_ mine _._  
  
“Okay. How does it work, exactly?”  
  
He sighed heavily, and his agitation seemed to dissipate slightly, though the room was still thick with some unnamed, roiling tension. He turned toward her again, sat himself on his chair. This time, he looked at her when he spoke.  
  
“I don’t know very much firsthand,” he told her, having mastered himself. “What I do I know, I learned from traveling with two different packs on the Continent and in America.” His voice still somewhat tight, it was at least void of the attempt at cool detachment from earlier.  
  
“It obviously comes from the wolf,” he began. “Wolves--and werewolves--mate for life. As a magical creature, a werewolf recognizing its mate refers to an unprecedented level of compatibility between the man, the wolf, and the prospective partner--emotional, physical, and magical attunement . It’s a very definite magical bond that transcends the one a wolf--a real, normal wolf--might have for its mate.”  
  
Hermione leaned back, frowning slightly as she processed that information. “So we’re compatible.”  
  
He actually smiled at her, though it was brief. “Apparently.”  
  
She let out a heavy breath. “Okay. That makes a lot of sense, actually.”  
  
“It--what?”  
  
She shrugged. “We’ve very similar personalities, haven’t we? Both academic-minded, devoted to our close friends to the exclusion of all else, and so on.”  
  
He stared at her. “Well, yes. I suppose.”  
  
“You haven’t thought about it?”  
  
He snorted. “Of course I have,” he admitted uncomfortably. “It would have been impossible not to have done. But you’re--you’re taking this rather well, Hermione.”  
  
She bit her lip. “It’s unexpected, of course,” she said slowly. “And while I’ve had a bit of a crush on you--” at this Lupin started violently--“I never imagined something like this. But I have thought about it, you know. We are well-suited.”  
  
He didn’t say anything for several long moments, just looked at her with something surprised, considering in his gaze.  
  
“What else?” she asked.  
  
“What else, what?”  
  
“We’re compatible--magically, emotionally, and phy-physically,” Hermione quoted diligently, cursing her own bashfulness. “What else should I know?”  
  
 _Physically_.  
  
“What else should you--Hermione, this is not--we are not going any further than this,” he said firmly. His eyes had gone wide, the dark pupils expanded.  
  
Her face got hot again. “Well, we can talk about that. But there has to be more to it, right? Is there a ceremony, or something?”  
  
“Uh--not exactly,” he answered, and it was clear that only his surprise had let the words fall out.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
A beat.  
  
“Sex, Hermione. _Mating_.” He spat the word out like something ugly, and again the anger and frustration that oozed from his pores filled the room like the bright light from the fire.  
  
It took a second for Hermione to collect herself from the sudden shock of his words, and the throb of heat in her groin, and she opened her mouth to respond, when--  
  
Lupin inhaled deeply, and went very still.  
  
“What? What is it?”  
  
He took another deep breath through his nose and slowly, very slowly, turned his head to meet her gaze. His amber eyes seemed bright in the darkness, his pupils blown.  
  
Another rush of desire swept its way through her body, emanating from the pit of her stomach, where it contracted into a sharp ache.  
  
“You’re--I can--” Lupin’s raspy voice seemed weaker than usual, thinner, like he was short of breath.  
  
Unbidden, the image of her so-long-ago essay for Professor Snape swam into her mind.  
  
 _...While in its human form, the common werewolf, or Homo Lupus, is relatively indistinguishable from an un-afflicted person but for the following traits: uncommonly sensitive sight, hearing, and smell; typically pale brown, green, or yellow irises; physical evidence such as excessive scarring (either from the initial attack or from self-inflicted injuries while restrained during the full moon)..._  
  
Uncommonly sensitive sense of smell. Oh god. He could smell her. Hermione cringed and allowed herself a few unbearable seconds of unmitigated humiliation before she savagely forced herself to box it up into a corner of her mind.  
  
“Well,” she said with a faux sense of cheer, “it wouldn’t have been fair for you to be the only one a little embarrassed.”  
  
Lupin exhaled in a rush, and met her eyes almost tentatively, a smile playing across his lips. “Fair enough, I suppose.” The fondness in his voice nearly stopped her heart.  
  
And Hermione made the decision that she hadn’t even realized she was contemplating.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“‘Okay,’ what?” His genuine confusion made her smile.  
  
Hermione gathered her courage and met his gaze. “I’ll be your mate.”

  
  
\----

  
  
For a long moment, he stared at her uncomprehendingly, floored. “You’ll... _what_?”  
  
Hermione squared her shoulders and plowed through the discomfort of this entire unbelievably surreal conversation. “I accept.”  
  
He was actually speechless, but Hermione found herself curiously attuned to his body language. The apprehension was obvious, but it was tempered with something slow and dark and tangible. His black pupils rimmed with gold, his normally tired mien infused with energy--he looked _alive_.  
  
Hermione realized somewhat belatedly that she wanted him very much. She hadn’t lied before; they were well-suited. They had actual magical proof of that. She was seventeen, sure, and pretty much everyone she knew would be horrified, but in the face of this wonderful, strong person--this man who’d been forced to reveal his actual magical bond to her despite his intention to mask it forever, for her benefit and to his detriment--she found herself slightly in awe.  
  
The rush of affection she felt for him must have been obvious somehow because he suddenly seemed to come back to himself, swallowing tightly. “Hermione, you can’t--you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re still--god, you’re still a _student_ \--and me--I’m--”  
  
Hermione raised her hand. “I’m of age, first of all,” she said quietly, drawing upon a reserve of confidence that she hadn’t known she even possessed. “Second, we both agree that we’re compatible. Me, based on what I know of you, and you, based on an actual metaphysical connection that you have with me.”  
  
He watched her, mouth slightly open, and didn’t protest.  
  
“Third,” Hermione continued nervously, “My being here--my being near you--is causing problems for you,” she said uncomfortably. “You hurt yourself and you could have hurt someone else last night.”  
  
He winced and made as if to respond, but just waved a hand at her as if to tell her to continue.  
  
“I’m guessing that you’ll try to leave,” Hermione went on. “You’ll leave the Order, and the fight against Vol-Voldemort, which is where I know you want to be. You’ll also leave a source of Wolfsbane. This is--that is not okay, with me. Or with anyone, but not with me, Harry, and Sirius especially.”  
  
“You’ll isolate yourself because you probably feel guilty, and you have for a while,” she continued doggedly. “But you shouldn’t do that,” she said quietly. “I couldn’t bear it if you did. Your friends and--and your family--” she swallowed--“your _pack_ \--we’re all here. So I accept.”  
  
He was silent for a several long moments, still appearing dumbstruck but obviously processing her words, and Hermione felt a sudden, terrible fear that he might ignore her--that he might leave anyway--  
  
“You... Hermione, you’re sure?”  
  
Wild, unrestrained joy and relief burst in her chest at the sound of his hoarse question.  
  
Hermione cleared her throat. “Ah, yes. I’m sure.”  
  
The wonder on his face didn’t go away, but something dark and predatory was added to it. His body language changed again; the anger faded away and was replaced by intent.  
  
Hermione suppressed a shiver.  
  
He stood up quite suddenly, stalked from his chair to her place on the small settee and sat beside her, thigh pressed against hers, his biceps touching her shoulder.  
  
“Please--please don’t--” he began tightly, and stopped. “Hermione, you need to be sure--to be absolutely certain. Please.”  
  
Hermione supposed that this should have felt like a dream, but it didn’t. Last night, awful howling and screaming--it _had_ been called the Shrieking Shack, after all--had startled the entire household. Sirius had tried his best to calm the werewolf down, and they’d called in Snape, who’d reacted about as well as expected when accused of bollixing up the Wolfsbane, until finally Sirius apparated into the sitting room and made straight for Hermione.  
  
 _“Hermione, I need you to come with me, please.”_  
  
 _Hermione looked up at him, startled. He had nasty nicks and scratches on his face, on his visible arms--his grey eyes pained and eyes shadowed. “...Sirius?”_  
  
 _“Please--” Sirius began uncomfortably, cutting himself off. “He won’t stop otherwise.”_  
  
 _“Professor Lupin won’t... but what can I do?”_  
  
 _An especially mournful, anguished cry rose up from the cellar and the group of tired people in the sitting room shuddered collectively._  
  
 _“Sirius Black, what are you on about?” an exhausted Molly Weasley inquired, her tired voice still sharp._  
  
 _“Not now, Molly,” Sirius replied steady, sounding as serious as Hermione had ever seen him. “Hermione, please.”_  
  
 _He didn’t need to ask twice._  
  
 _“Hermione--Sirius, what on earth are you thinking?” Molly shouted, rousing the ire of the others in the room--Arthur, Ron, Harry, and Ginny._  
  
 _“Mate, she can’t go down there,” said Ron hotly. “The Wolfsbane didn’t bloody work! Are you mental?”_  
  
 _“Language, Ronald, and Sirius, he’s absolutely right,” Molly blustered. “‘Take Hermione downstairs’ indeed!”_  
  
 _As if privy to the argument, Moony threw himself against his barricade again, sending an ominous quiver throughout the house._  
  
 _“Good gracious,” Molly said weakly._  
  
 _“I’m gonna kill Snape,” spat Harry savagely. “He messed with Lupin’s potion, I know he did, just to get back at him--”_  
  
 _“Harry, enough,” Sirius said shortly._  
  
 _Sirius Black, calling off Harry from snarling about Snape?_  
  
 _Hermione stared at him. “He won’t hurt me?”_  
  
 _“He won’t, and I wouldn’t let him anyway,” Sirius reassured her quietly._  
  
 _“Sirius Black!”_  
  
 _“Molly, that’s enough,” said Arthur gently, looking at Hermione with sudden understanding in his eyes._  
  
 _Confused, she turned her gaze back to Sirius. “What’s going on?”_  
  
 _“I’ll explain--or Remus will, once he’s himself again,” Sirius said, and the conflict in him was apparent. He did not want to be having this conversation._  
  
 _“All right,” Hermione said evenly, in a tone much calmer than she really felt inside._  
  
Hermione blinked and looked at the man next to her. The man who’d been trapped in the body of a wolf the night before, who’d been calmed by her presence after nothing else had worked.  
  
“I’m certain,” she said firmly. And to her surprise, she was.  
  
Lupin’s eyes went dark. He grabbed her hand and stood, pulling her up with him. The sudden contact--had he _ever_ so much as hugged her before?--was a shock to Hermione’s system, and the sudden thrum of energy and rightness and arousal that buzzed through her only affirmed her decision. She was certain.  
  
“Come,” said Lupin, and his voice was lower, rougher, like a growl, and he stalked toward the entrance of the library.  
  
She was going to do this. She was going to let Lupin _mate_ her.  
  
It sounded so dirty, so animalistic--and Hermione couldn’t help that she found it more exciting than repulsive. She wondered if that was part of what being his mate meant.  
  
The house was quiet. No doubt everyone but Sirius had cleared off to the Burrow in order to get some sleep after a long, exhausting night and probably, to give Hermione and Lupin time to talk.  
  
 _Lupin_. She probably needed to start thinking of him as Remus, all things considered. She knew that she certainly wouldn’t want him to call her Granger--or god forbid, _Miss Granger_ \--while they were--  
  
Flashes of half-formed images streaked across her mind’s eye--Lupin undressed, between her legs, silvery scars luminescent in the candlelight--  
  
She flushed with renewed self-consciousness.  
  
Lupin shut the door to the library behind them and looked down at her seriously. Why had she never realized how tall he was? How broad his shoulders? He was big, too, having gained a little weight from steady meals and less stress. He had to be at least thirteen stone, despite the transformation last night.  
  
Why hadn’t it left him in his usual awful condition? Had it something to do with her presence?  
  
Hermione swallowed. She’d made her decision, she was confident about her choice, but still--  
  
Uncomfortable nervousness and apprehension shot through her gut. She supposed he could hear her increased heart rate, too, which made it hard to pretend like she wasn’t anxious.  
  
He threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed tightly. His face shone with a bit of sweat, his eyes dark. “It’s fine. I won’t--I will never hurt you.”  
  
“I know--it’s just...” Hermione trailed off. “Are we going to your room?”  
  
“Ah, yes. Is that--are you okay?”  
  
The gentle concern was more reassuring than even he intended it to be, she thought. Hermione looked down at his hand in hers--even his hands seemed huge--and a fond smile spread across her face before she realized it.  
  
“Yes. Can we--let’s go and then talk, a little?”  
  
He nodded once, firmly, and walked toward the house’s main staircase without hesitation. The shifts in his mood were obvious, now that she was observing him so closely. It explained a lot of his behavior that she now realized she had observed but not found odd enough to really consider.  
  
She remembered now the way he would look on her with kind eyes in her third year, but had refused to allow her extra credit or to be her academic advisor on one of the extracurricular projects she’d planned for that year. Granted, she’d also been trying to confirm that he was a werewolf, and while his excuses-- _“I suspect you have quite enough to be getting on with, Miss Granger”_ \--rang true, his reluctance to spend any amount of time with her alone also made sense.  
  
And to think--at the time, she’d been jealous of Harry for his Patronus lessons.  
  
What man in his thirties--a man who most certainly had a low enough opinion of himself already--deserved to feel like he was immoral, or wrong, or disgusting, for having a connection that he couldn’t control with an underage girl? And she knew enough about Remus Lupin to be sure that he had felt exactly that way. His awful realization that morning, when he’d shifted and woken up in her presence, his desperate humiliation and fear that he hadn’t been able to disguise when faced with Molly, Arthur, and Harry--god, it had broken her heart to see before she’d even learned the truth of it.  
  
He’d certainly tried his best to remain distant from her after third year. She hadn’t really seen him again until the summer before fifth year, and she remembered now how he’d been happy to talk to her about her studies, or her reading, but would usually find a reason to get up and leave if they found themselves alone together.  
  
That Christmas, she remembered some appraising looks from Sirius that she’d attributed to his concerns for Harry, but now realized that they could just as easily have been Padfoot attempting to make sense of his best mate Moony’s inexplicable bond with her.  
  
Lupin suddenly paused, and his grip on her hand grew tighter. Hermione blinked, and stared at the door that they stood before, realizing that it was his. His bedroom.  
  
She licked her lips, but this time he didn’t stop to reassure her, simply flicked his wand at the doorknob and murmured a spell.  
  
“You keep it locked?”  
  
He glanced back at her. “The twins visit pretty frequently,” he said by way of explanation, and of course it was explanation enough.  
  
“Oh,” Hermione replied awkwardly, after waiting a beat too long.  
  
He swung the door open for her, and she stepped inside. Lupin followed her and lit the various candelabras that were bracketed to the walls with another wave of his wand, before holstering it and closing the door.  
  
The click of the latch seemed uncommonly loud in the silent room.  
  
Hermione ran her tongue over her teeth and drew her bottom lip between her incisors, worrying the corner of it nervously while she--waited? stood there? Was she supposed to be saying something? Did he expect her to just drop trou and have at it?  
  
“Can I get you some tea?”  
  
Hermione started at the sound of his voice. His tone wasn’t as mild as it normally was, but it was certainly light years away from the harsh, impassioned shouting he’d done in the library.  
  
“Um, yes, thank you,” she replied absently, mind still crawling over every word, every interaction that they’d shared since her third year. Was there some sign that she’d missed over all this time? Some special glance or gesture that she should have picked up on, that should have made her realize that she was his mate?  
  
 _Mate_. There it was again. The brief comfort she’d had with the word not ten minutes ago had faded now that they stood about four feet from a bed. His bed.  
  
 _Sex, Hermione_. Mating.  
  
“I howled at you,” she said suddenly, turning towards him as he fiddled with a kettle and tea set that sat on a sideboard next to a pleasantly stuffed bookshelf.  
  
His hands fumbled a bit with the mug he was holding but he caught it using the unnaturally quick reflexes that Hermione had not included in what she might as well have titled her “Tips on Identifying Professor Lupin as a Werewolf” essay from so long ago.  
  
“Ah, I beg your pardon?”  
  
He sounded a little uncertain and faintly embarrassed, and the turnabout actually made her feel a little more sure of herself. Hermione cleared her throat. “That night, the night Harry and I saved Sirius,” she began. “Harry and I were there, when you transformed. Sirius had changed into Padfoot, but I remembered hearing--well, I howled at you, to get you to come for us instead of--of our other selves,” she finished somewhat stiltedly.  
  
His shoulders tensed as he poured the boiling hot water into the two mugs, Lupin didn’t say anything at first. “Well, not my finest moment,” he said finally, a bit of his usual self-deprecating humor lacing the words. “But that would have done it, certainly, if my mate called to me.”  
  
She noticed that he didn’t say “the wolf.” _If my mate called to me_. His admission warmed her heart. _My mate_.  
  
The arousal she’d felt earlier blossomed again in her abdomen, coiling upwards and outwards like one of the flowers in an O’Keeffe painting.  
  
“Hermione,” he said suddenly, handing her the mug of tea he’d prepared.  
  
She accepted it automatically, lifting it to her nose to inhale deeply.  
  
“Hermione,” he said again. “You don’t have to--please don’t feel like you are obligated to be--to be intimate with me.” He seemed deeply uncomfortable. “This is all rather sudden for you, and even if--you’re kind-hearted enough to accept me, but I don’t...” he trailed off, seeming frustrated with his uncharacteristic inability to articulate himself. “I do realize that I’m--I’m quite a bit older than you, and no one--least of all me--expects you to have--to have any kind of feelings for--”  
  
He sounded honestly miserable, a far cry from the dark confidence she’d seen as they left the library. Hermione slowly took a sip of her tea. One lump of sugar, a dash of cream. Why had she never realized that he knew how she took her tea?  
  
“I do have feelings for you,” she said quietly, feeling the tea bolstering her. “I have always had a bit of a crush, like I said,” she continued, trying to seem nonchalant. “And I respect you. And I agree that we’re compatible. And I have tangible proof of--proof of--well, I saw firsthand, last night, that there is something between us. Something that connects us. I believe you, and I won’t--I won’t lose you, or let you lose yourself.”  
  
He stared at her, hanging on her every word, his tea ignored.  
  
Hermione reached into her quailing vault of courage and pulled out the closest thing to a smirk that she could find. “Plus, I always have liked older men.”  
  
He choked out a terse laugh, and the stillness and seriousness in the room was broken. “Well, I am that,” he said, running a hand through his greying, sandy hair. “Hermione, what about Ron?”  
  
Hermione felt a pit of dread and discomfort build in her stomach. “What about him?” she asked coolly.  
  
“It’s plain--well, it has been suggested that...”  
  
“We’ve never been together,” Hermione replied sharply. “I thought--I thought for a long time that he would just ask me, but I’ve only ever been hanging around. I’m not interested in that.”  
  
“You’re sure?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
And, Hermione realized, she was. How could Ron’s youthful jealousy and paralyzing fear to act possibly attract her now, when she was faced with the real thing? A man who was devoted to her to the extent that he would rather torture himself then embarrass her? A man whose mind and magic were so attuned to hers that it she had become his biological imperative?  
  
She thought again on the scene in the kitchen this morning, at Sirius’s furious shout-- _“God damn it, Molly, let him have his dignity!”_ \--when Mrs. Weasley had furiously cornered him upon reappearing from the cellar. He’d been wrapped only in a blanket that Sirius had brought to him, his abject misery and shame more obvious than even the bruises and gashes that decorated him.  
  
Lupin let out a heavy breath. “Well, that’s rather good to hear,” he said quietly. “Could have done without being jealous over a spotty ginger brat.”  
  
After, Hermione would decide that the absurdity of the situation, the incongruity of docile Professor Lupin irritatedly calling Ron childish names, the sudden insight into what he must have been like as a young Marauder--it had all combined into something so funny that the resulting fit of laughter was easily understood.  
  
Giggling, she barely managed to set down her tea before the hilarity turned into real, deep, belly laughs, and soon enough, Lupin was joining her and they were side by side on his bed, laughing at themselves and this predicament and everything.  
  
When they finally calmed down, Lupin held her hand in his and his index finger was rubbing the inside of her wrist in gentle circles. It felt more intimate than any of Viktor’s fumbling kisses and certainly more romantic than Cormac’s slobbering. Hermione swallowed.  
  
“I’m a virgin.”  
  
The words came out so suddenly that Hermione didn’t even process that she had decided to say them until they were already there.  
  
His fingers tightened around hers. “That’s--uh--probably not the best thing for me to hear right now, honestly,” he said ruefully, and the honest near-despair she hear in his tone was enough to ease the tension and make her smile again.  
  
“I just--wanted you to know,” she said lamely.  
  
“I’m glad you told me. But we don’t have to do anything right now,” he told her gently. “I won’t--I will not hurt you.”  
  
“I actually don’t know if it’ll hurt,” Hermione remarked pensively. “I rode horses when I was younger. Did you know that’s the reason I don’t like to fly? My horse--I was jumping him, and we landed wrong, and he threw me. And he broke both of his forelegs, and had to be put down.”  
  
Hermione had actually never told anyone that before.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Lupin murmured. “Were you hurt?” There was a protective edge in his voice, like if he were able to track down the elusive reason that her gelding had failed the jump that day, he would rend it limb from limb.  
  
“Broke my arm and collarbone,” she admitted, lifting her unoccupied hand to touch the divot on her left collarbone that was the remnant of the injury she’d had at ten years of age. “Here.”  
  
His finger followed hers, and traced the spot. She repressed a shudder at the touch of his fingertips on her skin.  
  
“Anyway,” she said somewhat breathlessly, “Pretty sure my hymen was ruptured, so, I don’t think it’ll really hurt. Sex, I mean.”  
  
God, how embarrassing. Why couldn’t she stop talking?  
  
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t,” he said in a low rasp, his tone full of dark intent.  
  
The rush of heat to her groin at his words did not go unnoticed by him. She could feel it in the sound of his deliberate exhale, the way the finger on her wrist faltered.  
  
“Did, um--did Sirius know?” Hermione croaked out in the sudden silence.  
  
“Beg pardon?”  
  
“About me. Us.”  
  
“Ah, yes. He forced it out of me the summer before your fifth year,” Lupin said. “Not one of our more pleasant conversations.”  
  
“How did he know?”  
  
“Not exactly sure. It might have been a Padfoot thing, you know, him being a fellow canine, or he might have been in one of his irritatingly insightful moods. I never asked.”  
  
“What did he say?”  
  
“You probably don’t want to know. He was very protective of you, let’s just say.”  
  
Hermione felt a rush of affection toward her friend’s godfather. His near-death experience at the end of her O.W.L. year had made them realize yet again how dear he was to all of them. Harry had yet to forgive himself for falling for the trap that had resulted in his friends getting hurt and his godfather nearly being taken from them.  
  
“Was he mad at you?”  
  
“No,” Lupin responded after a moment. “He’s known me since we were eleven. He’s probably more fine with my--my _animal_ side than I am.”  
  
She could tell that he was trying not to sound bitter. “Probably. You don’t seem very fine with it.”  
  
He stared up at the ceiling. “All I ever wanted was to be normal. Most of the time I can pretend, but... this...” He sighed and seemed to sink into the mattress.  
  
“I’m sorry about this morning,” Hermione said quietly.  
  
He shook his head. “Not your fault. I expected that confrontation to happen at some point, but obviously, the circumstances were not... Ah, ideal, as it were.”  
  
“You mean the part where Mrs. Weasley screamed at you for a full five minutes before Sirius dressed her down, right after you’d transformed back into yourself?”  
  
“I was thinking about Harry, actually,” he confessed. “I just--I never wanted--” he broke off. “I didn’t want to see that look on his face.”  
  
Hermione knew what look he was talking about. The shock and concern, the traces of betrayal, revulsion, doubt. Sirius was going to sort him out, explain, but still...  
  
“Do you resent me?”  
  
He jerked his face toward her. “What? No! No, I could never--that’s not at all what I want you to think,” he said, sounding so stricken that Hermione immediately wished she hadn’t asked.  
  
“It’s okay,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry, I--”  
  
“Hermione, I love you,” he said very firmly, and the words fell so easily from his mouth, so matter-of-factly, that she was shocked into silence. “I don’t resent you for that, or the werewolf, for making me realize it. I just wish--I wish I could be what you deserve. Your own age, for one, and not some--tired, weary old man.”  
  
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, and she turned toward him, meeting his gaze for what seemed like the first time. The light from the torches brought out the yellow in his eyes, but it was the sincerity, the earnestness that she could read in his expression that floored her.  
  
He truly meant it. He _loved_ her.  
  
“I don’t think you’re that old,” she whispered to him, feeling rather foolish.  
  
He smiled at her, and his teeth glinted. “You know, I think I actually believe that you believe that.”  
  
Hermione smiled and nudged him with her elbow, and it felt so lovely, so natural--it hit her: she _fit_ with him. He--or his wolf--was right. _Mate_.  
  
The realization made her breath catch in her throat, and she saw the moment that he registered the change in her. His gaze grew dark with intent, his brow furrowed.  
  
“Remus,” she began slowly, not missing the way his eyes widened slightly at the use of his given name, “May I kiss you?”

 

  
\-----

 

  
  
He looked at her very seriously for a moment, and licked his lips somewhat unconsciously. “I’m yours,” he said finally, his voice more hoarse than ever, and the truth hit her so suddenly and violently that she felt her heart thud its surprise in her chest.  
  
My _mate_. Mine.  
  
She was _his_ mate, which meant that he was _hers_.  
  
She leaned over and pressed her lips very lightly to the corner of his mouth. Her lips, she knew, were a little dry and rough from her incessant biting. His were soft, wet from the quick swipe of his tongue moments before, and even though her kiss was as chaste as could be, a spark of rightness and heat flooded her at the simple contact  
  
She breathed out against his lips, and he was motionless for only a split second. His hand shot out to her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his head on, and he kissed her. His mouth was hot against hers, lips moving reverently against hers, and it took her only a split-second before she kissed him back.  
  
A tiny sound escaped his throat and suddenly all traces of the unsure, uncomfortable, self-hating Remus Lupin disappeared, replaced entirely with someone that she’d seen flashes of all evening.  
  
Certainty. Calm. Firm hands, hot mouth, _intent_.  
  
Before she realized it, her mouth was open against his and she had _never_ been kissed like this. There was heat building between them, a fiery burn that began at the places they were touching and wound its way to where he broke his lips from hers to kiss down her jaw, to her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there.  
  
She gasped at the feel of his teeth on her and he took advantage of her momentary distraction, wrapping a big hand around her hip and pulling himself on top of her, running his palm down her side. He sucked hard at the place where her jaw met her neck, and the suddenness of it shot desire straight down to her toes.  
  
His thigh slid between hers, pressed into her through her jeans, and the contact set her heart racing faster even as his lips returned to hers, tongue wrangling hers.  
  
She could feel him then through his trousers, the hot, hard length of him pressing against her lower abdomen. She thought it should make her nervous, or bashful, but instead only a bubble of excitement burst in her chest and she arched upwards at him, pressing herself against him.  
  
He grunted and rocked his hips against her in return, his hand sliding up under her shirt to run over her ribs, her sternum. When the pad of his thumb brushed over her nipple through her brassiere, Hermione’s entire body jolted and she gasped into his mouth.  
  
He broke their kiss then, breathing harshly against her lips, resting his forehead against hers as he held her to him. “Hermione,” he whispered. “If you don’t--we have to stop now.”  
  
He ground himself against her hip involuntarily, and Hermione knew what he meant. If they went any further, he wouldn’t stop himself.  
  
Her heart fluttering madly in her breast, she drew her hands back from where they’d found themselves under his shirt and rested them against his chest. She could feel his heart pounding like hers was.  
  
“Can you, um...?”  
  
He jumped off of her like he’d been struck and Hermione immediately felt awful, immediately resolving to backtrack as he fairly leapt off of the bed to stand in the middle of the floor. “No, Remus, I didn’t mean--”  
  
He shook his head, still breathing hard. “Don’t be ridiculous, you have--”  
  
He cut himself off abruptly, because she’d just pulled her shirt over her head, followed by her brassiere, and her hands were on the button of her jeans.  
  
He stared at her in stunned disbelief for a few seconds, and Hermione’s hands fumbled.  
  
“ _Don’t_.”  
  
His voice was low and gravelly, sounding more like a growl than anything human. It was a command, and it would not be ignored.  
  
Hermione’s hands froze immediately and she met his gaze.  
  
His face was transformed. Amber eyes half-lidded, nostrils flaring as he inhaled, his entire self was focused on her completely. The intensity of it nearly took her breath away.  
  
This, Hermione thought somewhat giddily, must be _Moony_.  
  
The person he allowed himself to be when he embraced his instincts, or when they embraced him.  
  
He suddenly moved, beginning to undress quickly and economically. He drew his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers in the next second, letting them fall to the ground. He stepped out of them gracefully and stalked toward her, clad only in his briefs.  
  
She was still, silent, captivated as he approached her, and she couldn’t help but stare at him.  
  
He had the frame of a much bigger man: broad shoulders, long arms and legs, and a narrow waist. His unnaturally high metabolism and the forced transformations each month meant that he struggled to maintain even an ounce of extra weight, which left him very lean. His skin was marred extensively by a latticework of pale-as-moonlight scar tissue, which cast odd shadows across what would have been uninterrupted definition. He was muscular in a rangy, functional way, his chest covered in brown hair that faded into a dark trail below his belly button.  
  
The surge of desire that thrummed through her was frankly not altogether unexpected and Hermione unconsciously licked her lips at his approach. He noticed, and grinned darkly as he reached the edge of the bed he had fairly sprinted from only moments before.  
  
He climbed on and knelt beside her, wrapping his hands around her ribcage. The boldness of him kept her silent as he bodily moved her further to the center of the mattress and pressed her down, making it clear that he wanted her to lay back. That she _would_ lay back.  
  
The dominance he was displaying now was a heady aphrodisiac. The brief, functional striptease she had performed, and his reaction to it, had left her wanting; his total lack of self-consciousness or hesitation while he had disrobed left her _aching_. Now, he dragged his hands down her sides and across her belly, the muscles of her stomach actually quivering at his touch as though he were plucking the strings of a harp.  
  
“You’re beautiful, mate,” he rumbled in that low, dark voice. Hermione shuddered at the sound of it, and she _believed_ him. He thought her beautiful, desirable; well, of course he did, as his mate, but still--to hear it, and see the tangible evidence of it--  
  
“You too,” she returned a moment later, sounding more breathy and girlish than she’d ever heard herself. She just couldn’t _concentrate_ while his fingers played with the zipper of her jeans, dragging it down in short, rough jerks that sent vibrations over her mound.  
  
She could feel it now. She was aching and wet; all from a few dark looks in the library, some suggestive words, his kisses, his disrobing, _him_. She’d never been in a state like this in her entire life. She’d read her mother’s romance novels, listened to Lavender and Parvati and even _Ginny_ giggle about this, about what a talented boy could do to a girl, but god--Remus was a _man_. And he made her feel like a _woman_.  
  
The thought sent another hot coil of arousal twanging through her body. The muscles deep inside her tightened in something almost like pain, and she couldn’t help the low moan that escaped her throat. This was right; this was perfect. The animal inside him had _known_ that they were made for each other, meant for each other, and Hermione wondered nonsensically how it was that she hadn’t realized it immediately herself.  
  
Lupin reached under her, grabbed her arse in both hands and squeezed so roughly that another moan turned into a breathy squeak. When she looked at him, overwhelmed, she saw that he was grinning at her, and he squeezed again.  
  
She could help the smile she gave him in return, feeling light headed and giddy with what they were doing. A second later, he had curled his fingers under her waistband and roughly pulled the jeans down, taking her knickers with them. He lifted her legs over one of his forearms and used his other hand to yank the offending cotton down her thighs and over her knees.  
  
She hadn’t realized she wore such tight jeans, for him to be having so much trouble. She giggled a little once he finally ripped them from her ankles, but her giggle disappeared quickly when he dropped her legs, gripped her thighs, spread them apart, and leaned down.  
  
The first touch of his mouth on her was so sudden, so unexpected, that she couldn’t help but cry out. His fingers dug into her thighs, spread her wide, and he was scraping his teeth against her, dragging them over her clit--his tongue--  
  
Hermione found her hands clenched in his hair, her back arched--and a second ago, she’d been laughing! Her entire world was reduced to the feel of his mouth on her, his tongue circling and flicking, the violent rush of pleasure she felt when he’d graze his teeth over her clit.  
  
He was groaning against her, and the feel of the sound escaping his lips to touch her made her clench her legs around him, shuddering in a pre-orgasmic shock.  
  
She jerked sharply when one of his hands left her hip and joined his mouth. He pressed a long finger into her, finding no resistance, and curled it against the pad of flesh just inside, and it sent a sharp flare of pleasure so intense through her stomach that she whimpered and moaned.  
  
Another finger joined the first, and he was building a rhythm now, stroking her inside and sucking her clit, tracing its hood to flick over the exposed, erect bit of flesh while he pulled it hard into his mouth.  
  
She didn’t last long. Her orgasm was building in a sudden, massive wave, her legs shaking and quivering, her perception reduced to the place between her legs and what he was doing to her there. Something hot and dark and heavy was expanding at her center, and she was gasping, climbing--climbing--  
  
She screamed when she came. It was a violent release, and she shook under him, her body clamping down on the fingers that he’d crooked inside her. He kept his mouth on her, riding out the contractions of her climax with gentle suction, tracing the perimeter of her clit because god knows, she wouldn’t survive if he touched her there right now.  
  
Her hands dropped from his hair, she sank back into the mattress, utterly boneless as the last remaining aftershocks ebbed through her.  
  
He pulled back from her and kissed her lower abdomen, and her belly button, and he traced his tongue around her. She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, still trying to recover, and wanted to be embarrassed at the wet shine of herself on his face, but she could only be enthralled.  
  
He kissed his way up her body, paying special attention to the silver line that stretched from her ribcage, across her sternum, up to her collarbone. Dolohov’s legacy from the Department of Mysteries.  
  
Normally, Hermione might have cringed at the memory. At the moment, all she could think of was the feel of him on her, his lips tracing the scar and his hands caressing her breasts, his reverence and love obvious in every touch.  
  
He pulled a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard on it like he had her clit moments before.  
  
Renewed arousal tingled through her, spreading into the warm glow left by his earlier attention.  
  
He sensed it, because his mouth left her breast and reconnected with her own. She could taste herself there, but also him, and there was something ragged and desperate in his kiss, and she knew that he needed her badly, had wanted her so long, and that he was still trying to deny himself even through the haze of his lust and his wolf and her.  
  
Moving languidly, she twisted in his embrace, letting him turn his attention to her shoulder, and then her arm--he pressed gentle butterfly kisses to the sensitive skin of her inner arm and she shivered.  
  
With her free arm, she reached out for the pillow at the head of the bed and dragged it towards her as he broke away from her arm to watch.  
  
She leaned up on her elbow, kissed his neck for a long minute, nipped and bit at him a little to mark him like he had marked her before, and then twisted onto her stomach, positioning the pillow beneath her.  
  
The moment she pushed herself up on her knees and elbows, he was on her. The violence of his reaction shocked her; he licked and bit and kissed every inch of her back, running his hands over her, and pulled back for only a moment to shuck off his own briefs.  
  
Then he was behind her, between her legs, and she wished that she could see him because she was still wobbly and exhausted after her own orgasm, and she didn’t really know what she was doing--  
  
“Oh, god, Hermione,” he rasped, and the lust and love and gratitude in his voice sent a new rush of desire through her veins. She wanted him. She wanted him _badly_. She wanted him inside her and behind her and gasping.  
  
One of his hands gripped her hipbone and then she felt him at her entrance. He felt blunt and big and hot against her, and she didn’t see how this was going to work, hymen or not.  
  
He started to press in, and it was tight. He inhaled sharply, his breath hissing through what sounded like clenched teeth, and she heard a rumble that sounded like a growl as he fought to control himself.  
  
“Oh, fuck--oh god--”  
  
He pushed all the way in and stilled, and she felt incredibly, hugely full; she didn’t feel pain, exactly, but stretched, unfamiliar discomfort. His strangled exclamation had stroked her fire for him again, had filled her with a wave of feminine pride that she had made him feel this way. The minor pain was worth that.  
  
She breathed out slowly, her biceps already trembling from the strain despite the fact that she was on her elbows instead of hands like she’d originally thought to do. The discomfort was lessening now, and she could feel him against her backside, his thighs trembling, the grip on her hip no doubt bruising.  
  
He pulled back and pushed in again. The suddenness of it made her expel her breath sharply, and the bloom of pleasure that erupted in her belly sent her forehead to the mattress. He kept moving, withdrawing almost completely before thrusting in again in slow, deliberate strokes. Push and pull. In and out.  
  
“Fuck,” he suddenly choked out, and he began to set a much faster pace. His angle changed slightly and his cock stroked against her g-spot, and the pleasure that she’d begun to feel as he moved inside her burst. Hermione cried out into the coverlet and pushed back against him unselfconsciously, seeking that sensation again.  
  
“Fuck--you--you feel so good--”  
  
His hand left her hip and reached forward to grip her shoulder instead, pulling her even closer to him as he pumped in and out of her. She felt him heavy on her back for a moment before some of the weight eased; he’d planted his other hand on the mattress beneath her stomach. She still felt him above her, his chest hair rubbing against her back, his hot breath puffing against her skin as he groaned and gasped, but she wasn’t going to collapse.  
  
The extra stability and new angle seemed to make something snap in him. He grunted with nearly every thrust, angling himself to hit that spot in her again, and she shuddered with the power of him behind her. The thrum of pleasure was growing with each forceful push of his body inside hers. She couldn’t seem to get enough air, gasping at the repeated collision of their bodies in this perfect, primal dance. How could it be this good? How could they fit together so well?  
  
His bollocks slapped against her with each thrust, adding to their harsh breathing and wordless moans the wanton sound of flesh on flesh. It was that extra stimulation that made her shake and tremble against him. She cried out inarticulately as she felt the heat rising again from her toes, this time in a different way, but burning and expanding nonetheless. He was pounding into her now, guttural, animalistic growls rumbling through her from his chest against her back. Being the object of his unreserved ardor drove a spike of pleasure through her so intense that she groaned loudly into the mattress. It was instinctual. Hormonal. She could hardly think.  
  
Her toes curled, her shoulders trembled--she could feel him almost getting bigger at the base, his thrusts rough and uncontrolled as though it was a fight to get inside her, and then--oh god--he hauled her back, one hand groping for her clit, hips driving into her--he felt impossibly large--  
  
He pressed down inelegantly against her clit with the heel of his palm and she shrieked. She felt a hot stab of pleasure-pain at her neck and that was it; she was lost. She careened over the precipice, her body clenching and quivering around him as her vision burst from the strength of her orgasm. Through the haze, she felt something _click_ deep inside her; like everything she’d ever done had led to this moment where her magic buzzed with his, his body was one with hers, and it felt like coming home after the longest possible journey.  
  
Dimly, she felt his embrace turn into a violent, hard clench as his entire body tensed and he groaned incoherently. She felt a burst of wet heat inside her, his hips shallowly jerked into her three, four more times, and then they collapsed together.  
  
His chest heaved against hers. He was heavy on top of her. She tried to blink once, twice, but her face was pressed into the bedspread. She felt as though time had stopped and all that mattered was Remus at her back, pressed so tightly against her that she couldn’t imagine ever separating from him again.  
  
As the last trembling ripples of her orgasm passed, perception trickled back to Hermione and she felt Remus’s arms around her, moving her gingerly from resting on her stomach to her side, their bodies still intimately connected. She took a deep breath, her heart still thudding at a rapid, stuttering clip.  
  
He felt massive inside her, and Hermione’s vaguely puzzled mind cast around for an explanation. It didn’t hurt, really, no more than what she supposed was natural soreness, but he’d obviously finished--weren’t men supposed to, well, shrink a little?  
  
She must have voiced some incoherent version of her thought aloud, because she felt him laugh silently against her shoulder.  
  
“Werewolf thing, I’m afraid,” he murmured into her skin, rubbing his nose on her arm. “Happens around the full moon, before and after. I should have told you...”  
  
She half-heartedly raised a still-quivering arm to wave him off, feeling too exhausted, too completely _sated_ to let allow him any guilt.  
  
He drew her more tightly against his chest and pulled her thigh up over his own, easing some of the pressure of his cock--and _knot_ , Hermione realized--that was still inside her.  
  
She felt incredibly full and sensitive still, and couldn’t quite catch her breath, but she felt his palm sliding over the curve of her ribs and stomach and hips, over and over again, and his mouth rested at the crook of her neck, where he was mouthing the place that he’d bitten her.  
  
He’d bitten her!  
  
She’d hardly realized it at the time--she’d been absolutely _floating_ \--but she could feel the sting of what had to be broken skin at the join of her neck and trapezius. The feel of his mark--that was what it was, after all, a mark of his claim--made warmth rise in her chest.  
  
 _She was_ his _mate, which meant that he was_ hers _._  
  
The tenderness and closeness of him made her drowsy, and she relished the _something_ between them--something sweet and unshakable and intimate, a tie--quite literally, her tired mind remarked wryly--that made this all feel so right.  
  
He shifted behind her again, and the knot pressed deep into that sensitive spot on her inner walls and even in her exhausted state, Hermione could not help be let out a low moan, tensing as the pressure increased, sending frissons of pleasure-pain through her abdomen.  
  
“Is it hurting you?” he asked quietly in her ear.  
  
He moved again, just barely, and Hermione couldn’t help another groan. She exhaled shallowly, panting a little as the pressure inside her persisted.  
  
“No,” she managed to get out, still short of breath. “It just--it takes, ah, getting used to...”  
  
She could feel his smile against her shoulder and he trailed his hand down to her mons, spreading his fingers and pressing down lightly. Hermione couldn’t help but inhale sharply as one of his fingers trailed lightly around the edge of her labia, gently skimming over the place that they were locked together. He rocked his hips a little, rubbing the knot against that sensitized spot inside her in tiny strokes. “R-Remus,” she sighed. His delight at her use of his name was practically tangible in the air.  
  
He dragged a nail up from her stretched, tight entrance up over her clit, still twitching his hips in the smallest of arcs, and it only took that single touch for a tiny orgasm to sweep over her. The muscles of her vagina fluttered tiredly against him and for the moment, some of the pressure abated.  
  
She sighed with the release, the aftershocks sending tremors through her exhausted thighs and buttocks, and he pulled her, if possible, closer to him, his nose buried in the crook of her shoulder.  
  
They slept.

  
  
\------

 

  
  
Hermione woke first.  
  
He’d finally softened and slipped out of her sometime in the night, and his come had trickled out of her to dry stickily on her inner thighs. She cringed a little at the sensation, shifting her hips and wincing at the unfamiliar soreness that characterized how most of her body felt, but the place between her legs in particular.  
  
One of his legs was thrown over hers, one arm under her neck and the other wrapped securely around her belly. She could feel the heat and hardness of him stiff against her lower back, and she felt a little embarrassed when she realized what it was, but she mentally shrugged it off. She was warm, safe, protected; his even, deep breathing told her he was still asleep and Hermione had a moment to think.  
  
The connection she’d sensed after he’d bitten her, that hum of magic and rightness and _fitting_ with him had not dissipated. She felt him like an extension of herself; a pulsing presence beside her that promised calm, love, strength. She sensed his contentment, his relief, even in his sleep. It felt right.  
  
She had technically known him nearly four years, but never truly until now. Now, she felt that she knew him intimately. Not simply because of what they had done physically, but because he felt like a puzzle piece that interlocked with her so perfectly that she could not help but know him and love him herself.  
  
“Hi,” he whispered against the shell of her ear. His voice was hoarse with sleep, and no doubt, all of the wild vocalizations from the day before.  
  
She smiled, and tightened her grip on the forearm that was wrapped around her waist. “Hi.”  
  
His mouth kissed the intersection of her neck and shoulder gently, swiping his tongue over the place he’d bitten her. “Are you okay?”  
  
She knew what he was asking: had he hurt her? Was she second-guessing her decision? Was she afraid of him? Embarrassed?  
  
She twisted in his grasp and met his eyes, hooded and uncertain though they were, and could not help the brilliant smile that spread across her face. She did not know quite how to put into words what she was feeling.  
  
The night before, they’d been woken by Remus’s wolf self--for lack of a better term--going _berserk_  in the cellar. By the time he’d shifted form again--later than usual, since the moon had only actually waxed completely full sometime that early morning--the entire household had congregated downstairs, waiting for an explanation as to why Hermione had somehow been able to calm him where even his oldest friend had failed.  
  
It had been an ugly confrontation. She’d been humiliated for herself and for Remus, sure, but now she viewed it through the eyes of someone who _understood_ what he felt, and loved him desperately, and she wanted nothing more than to protect him from the disgust and shock and fear that his closest friends-- _their_ closest friends, all but Sirius and Arthur--had heaped on him so unfairly.  
  
She burrowed her face into his chest, his hair tickling her nose. She tried out saying the words against his skin, mouthing them:  
  
 _I love you._  
  
“Hermione?” He spoke quietly, his soothing voice reaching her through the miasma of her racing thoughts.  
  
She looked up at him, then, and met his gaze evenly. “I love you, too.”  
  
It was easier than expected to say the words, considering. She’d thought of him as a friend, as the type of man she might one day marry herself. She’d had a crush, an infatuation, a flutter of excitement in her stomach whenever he was near. But the bond they’d forged last night transcended all of that. And Hermione knew without a doubt that he was hers, and she his.  
  
His mouth had fallen open slightly at her declaration, his eyes wide as he searched her face for hesitation, and his face split into a grin when found only calm certainty. He buried his face into the mass of hair at her nape. “Thank you,” he whispered, lips against the back of her neck.  
  
She shivered a little, and winced again at the twinges of discomfort she felt in her abdomen. True, her hymen had been gone after all, but it had still been her first time. And he hadn’t been gentle, although she wouldn’t take it back for one minute.  
  
He picked up on her distress immediately, and easily divined the cause. He slid away from her to the side of the bed and sat up, stretching for a moment before standing up, stark naked.  
  
She watched him unabashedly. The dittany and other potions stores that Sirius kept on hand for him had taken care of most of his self-inflicted injuries the previous night, leaving him only with some heavy bruising on his shoulder and side, and some half-healed gashes on his forearms. She hadn’t noticed the wounds last night, and neither had he, but unhappiness at the harm he’d done to himself roiled through her unpleasantly.  
  
“I’m fine,” he told her softly, guessing at the reason for her frown. “Lived through much worse, clearly,” he continued, gesturing at the cobweb of uneven scarring that covered him.  
  
Hermione nodded absently, still reviewing his body for damage. Her eyes caught the part of him that had been pressed against her moments before, and she colored a little.  
  
His erection was straight, proud, and uncircumcised; he seemed big--he’d certainly _felt_ it--but she really had no basis for comparison. The trail of hair that began at his belly button became a dark, relatively untamed mass at the base of his cock. Dried bodily fluids covered most of him, which reminded her of own predicament. The skin was red and flushed. It was, Hermione decided, a very nice penis.  
  
He started laughing at her a moment later, eyes crinkled with amusement, and she realized that she’d quite blatantly been staring and he’d stood there, allowing it. “Look all you like, love,” he said. “It’s yours to do with what you will.”  
  
Her blush deepened along with his smile as he made his way around the bed to her side. Before she had a chance to object, he reached under her and grabbed her in his arms, lifting her easily out of bed and turning to face an open door that she hadn’t noticed the night before. Her arms wrapped around his neck automatically and she tried not to stiffen as the ache of her muscles protested the movement.  
  
“Hold tight, love.”  
  
He must have grabbed his wand at some point, because suddenly the candles flickered to life. They stood in a large, opulent bathroom with a massive, sunken bathtub and a shower large enough for a tiled bench on the interior. Mounds of towels sat on a stand against the wall and the entire space held a muted glow, as if the walls themselves emitted some kind of natural light.  
  
Hermione was surprised at the luxury. Remus had never struck her as the type.  
  
“Sirius remembered that I spent about as much time as I could get away with in the prefect’s bath,” he explained, setting her down on a cushioned ottoman against the wall and crouching down to fiddle with some of the knobs on the bath. “Both before and after actually becoming a prefect. It helped after full moons, even when they became easier once I wasn’t going through them alone. When I moved in here, he installed this for me. Wouldn’t take no for an answer, of course.”  
  
Hermione felt a rush of affection for Sirius. He frustrated her sometimes, but his heart was as loyal as his Animagus form and he would do anything for those he cared about. He’d proven it time and time again, even so recently as the day before.  
  
She’d seen Sirius angry before, sure. He’d been angry at his house arrest, at Professor Dumbledore for telling Harry the prophecy while Sirius had been recovering from the Department of Mysteries, and furious when Minister Scrimgeour had gate-crashed Christmas at the Burrow.  
  
She’d never quite seen him like he’d been yesterday, snarling and protective over Remus, refusing to back down as Mrs. Weasley shrieked shrilly that his friend was a deviant of the highest order, a beast, a predator of young girls. It had only been Arthur’s intervention and Sirius’s unhesitating refusal to back down that had stopped the conflict from escalating.  
  
God, what were they going to do? Hermione had made her decision and was happy--beyond happy--with it, but she strongly doubted that anyone she knew would even make an attempt to understand.  
  
She yawned deeply. She hadn’t yet cast a _tempus_ charm, but it felt early. They’d only even begun talking after dinner yesterday, after Sirius had hustled him off to his room to sleep off what had been one of his worst transformations in years.  
  
The scent of lavender and orange blossom filled the warm, humid air. The bathtub had filled quickly. Remus stood from his crouch beside the tub and padded over to her, reaching out a hand for her to grab.  
  
She took it and he pulled her to her feet.  His brow furrowed as he looked over her, and she glanced down at herself to see what he was looking at.  
  
Ah. Faint bruises stood out in the pale, milky white skin of her thighs and hips, remnants of his tight grip the night before.  
  
Hermione reached out and pressed her other palm over his hand, cradling his big palm and long fingers in her own. “I’m completely fine, Remus.”  
  
“I was too rough,” he said in a low voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you--”  
  
“You weren’t and you didn’t,” Hermione cut him off promptly. She stepped closer to him, pulled his hand to rest between her breasts. “Last night was...” she closed her lips, shook her head briefly. “I don’t really have words. It was _wonderful_.”  
  
He swallowed and she watched his adam’s apple work. He was heavily stubbled this morning, obviously not having shaved the day before. She found him rather fetching, and told him so.  
  
The darkness in his eyes fled temporarily, and he quirked his mouth at her. “Oh?”  
  
She nodded, and stepped around him towards the tub, suddenly conscious of her nakedness as she felt his eyes on her. “It’s very rugged and manly,” she explained primly, and was pleased hear a snort of laughter.  
  
“Well, if you like hairy, then I expect you’ll really like me, oh, this time next month.”  
  
“The 22nd of April,” Hermione confirmed instantly, looking over her shoulder with a teasing smile. “Looking forward to it.”  
  
He shook his head at her, smiling, and took hold of her elbow as she stepped into the hot bath. “You know the date of the next full moon?”  
  
The bath felt glorious. Hot and fragrant, the water immediately began to soothe her sore and tired body.  It took her a minute to respond. “Mm. Memorized the dates up through 2005 during third year,” she mumbled, her eyes closed.  
  
She felt the water shift as he joined her, and smiled absently at the touch of his finger on her cheek. “Darling woman,” she heard him say quietly. “Only you.”  
  
And only him, she wanted to say in return. Instead, she fell asleep. All would be well.  
  
  
  
  
 **  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: For fun, not profit.
> 
> Story Notes: Couldn't resist a continuation. I have a lot of ideas for this premise. Hope you enjoy.

**MOONLIGHT MADE**

**Chapter 2**

They stayed in the bath a long time.

Hermione had drifted off, soothed by the humid, herbal-scented air and the hot water. She woke to the sensation of strong fingers combing through her hair and massaging her scalp gently. Her masseur rubbed circles at her temples, at the base of her neck, at the join of her skull and jawbone; he paused regularly to thread fingers through her mess of hair, making a valiant attempt to detangle it before returning to press his fingers to her crown.

It was heavenly.

Hermione blinked drowsily, slowly coming to perceive something beyond the hands that were easing her beyond measure. She rested against the chest of a man, her buttocks in his lap and her thighs over his. They were reclined enough to make it comfortable. The room was dimly lit. Her partner's heart thudded solidly behind her. His breaths lifted her body and exposed her breasts to the cool air with every inhalation.

"Good morning," his voice spoke quietly in her ear.

Hermione couldn't help the happy hum that she gave in response and she sensed, rather than saw, his pleased smile.

She enjoyed the feel of his body against hers and his hands on her scalp for a few more moments before attempting to speak again. "How long have we...?"

"No 'we' about it, love," Remus replied dryly. "You dozed off at about half six. It's been a little less than an hour. And to think, I'm the one that did all the work last night."

The happy bloom in her chest at his teasing tone made her split out in a grin. "Not  _all_  the work," she told him primly, feeling a flush of heat in her cheeks that had nothing at all to do with the water. She could give it back to him, tit for tat. At least she could  _try_.

He huffed a laugh against her ear. "You helped a little, I suppose."

"As I recall, I kissed you first," Hermione returned, sitting up a little so that she could twist her torso enough to see him. He dropped his hands to her shoulders, tapping fingers over her collarbones as though they were the keys of a piano.

Remus Lupin looked sublimely relaxed. The tension that normally resided in the crinkle of his brow, the drawn skin of his eyes, the permanent strain at his mouth‒it was all gone. He seemed tired, of course, and the laugh lines and crow's feet remained, along with the silvery scars that traversed his face, but Hermione was certain she had never seen him look so at ease.

The mix of joy, relief, and sadness that grew in her stomach at the realization must have been obvious in her face.

"What are you thinking?"

She didn't answer for a moment, choosing to stretch out her pleasantly achy legs and fumble with them until she had fully turned around on his lap. The self-consciousness she felt at the proximity of their lower halves blossomed into color on her chest. "You're happy," she replied finally, spreading her hands flat against his pectorals and studying his chest intensely.

"Yes," he said simply.

She loved how matter-of-fact he was. It was a quality he alone possessed out of everyone she knew, and it called to her forthright, practical nature.

His hands slid from the water over her back. He'd found a flannel somehow and had begun washing her back in slow, gentle swipes. It felt almost as intimate as everything else they had done.

"Are you?"

She almost missed the question. She didn't miss the anxiety that prickled up in his expression, or the sudden tightness of the muscles of his chest under her hands, or the furrow in his brow.

She nodded, looking him straight in the eye. "Yes."

The relief that she read in him‒in his face, his eyes, his body‒made her heart hurt. After everything they had said and done, after her repeated assurances and her surrender of her body to him, he still expected rejection.

She leaned forward, pressed her face in the hollow of his neck. He was sweaty and hot, and the prickle of his stubble was uncomfortably itchy against her skin. She didn't care. She wanted to climb inside him, to curl around his insides so they would never be parted and so he would know exactly how she felt and he would never need to wonder.

She held him tightly. Her breasts were mashed against his chest, her thighs on either side of him, and she didn't know what she was starting when she pressed her lips to the hollow of his throat, to his adam's apple, to the side of his jaw.

He inhaled deeply. She felt his hands on her bottom, his thumbs tracing down from her hipbones, over the curve of her arse, to crease of her thighs. His palms caught against her skin through the water, the soap on the flannel having washed away.

She felt him getting hard against her, rising thick and pulsing. She was still sore, but the water had lessened the ache and she realized that she wanted him again, wanted to watch him as he made the same choked sounds as he had the night before. She kissed his jaw again and he tilted his head down to meet her mouth.

It was a sweet kiss. Despite her nap‒and god, her entire body was all pruney‒she was still tired, and her exhaustion meant that their kiss was slow, languid.

He broke away a moment later to kiss her neck. He kissed over one of the marks he'd made last night and touched his tongue on the place he'd bitten her.

Hermione shuddered. It stung, certainly, but the feel of his mouth on that spot made her remember everything that had accompanied it. It still felt like most of the previous 36 hours had been a wild, incredibly vivid dream. But his mouth on the broken skin he'd made was a heady physical reminder of all that had happened. Could she ever have imagined that this was the direction her Easter holiday would take?

Abruptly, he stopped.

"We need to talk," he said slowly.

Hermione blinked. "Now?"

He nodded once; twice. "Yes. Hermione, I‒I should not have‒I should have told you what to expect, and I didn't." His gaze, which moments ago had been so open to her, had shuttered completely.

"Well, I did have some idea," Hermione said after a beat, somewhat pragmatically. "I didn't expect‒well, some of it was rather a surprise, but the‒um‒the spirit of the thing was about what I anticipated."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "The 'spirit of the thing?'"

"Yes. You know. You were very growly, and dominant, and‒other things," Hermione explained, a rising flush coloring her cheeks as she realized that she was describing Remus‒ _to his face_ ‒as "growly."

His cheekbones went a little pink, and he lifted one of his hands, which had drifted up to the small of her back, to his temple. He rubbed it tiredly. "Right. Well, those 'other things' shouldn't have happened without discussing it first. I'm sorry I didn't think about it."

Hermione felt like a very important discussion was happening, but she just wasn't catching all the threads. "I'm fine with what happened, Remus," she said quietly.

"Will you be when we have to face half the Order today? Dumbledore? Harry? Ron?" His tone was unusually sharp, and everything clicked into place.

"We should probably talk about it," she replied slowly. "I didn't think we wouldn't, I was just‒well, I thought we were enjoying ourselves a little bit."

"Molly won't stay away indefinitely, and there's an Order meeting tonight," Remus said darkly. "I‒Hermione, this is going to be very difficult for you. We can't take it back, you realize? Now that we've‒slept together, I won't be‒it's permanent, you understand?"

She nodded carefully. "I understood that last night."

He exhaled heavily. "But that was  _abstract_ , and this not."

Hermione tried to tamp down her rising irritation. "So how will it work, then?"

"What?"

"Now that we're official," she said. "How does it work?"

He looked at her hard, eyes glinting and unblinking. "I don't really know," he admitted finally.

Hermione exhaled loudly and furrowed her brow, her mind already racing. There was research to be done, certainly‒ramifications of a werewolf/human mated pair, and typical behavior post-bond, and Remus would have to be open with her about his feelings‒he'd mentioned feeling territorial before, so would he feel more so now, or less, since they were together?

She felt his hand on her chin, lifting her jaw to face him. "You're thinking hard."

She drew her lip into her mouth, worried at it out of habit. "Yes. You're right, we do need to talk. There's more going on than just us, so we need to figure this out before it becomes a wild card, or a potential liability."

She caught the faint amusement in his eyes before his expression shifted to thoughtful. "Practical as always."

Hermione shrugged. "I suppose someone needs to be."

"Right," said Remus. "Maybe some breakfast first?"

* * *

They finished the bath quickly. While she'd slept, Remus had apparently washed and conditioned her hair, and scrubbed her down. The thought of that made her feel both touched and a little awkward; despite the fact that he'd already seen and handled just about every bit of her, this was still so unbearably new that she simultaneously enjoyed and feared the unprecedented intimacy between them. She knew Remus, of course, but she'd only  _known_  him like this for a grand total of 12 or so hours. There was a lot of adjustment to come.

He seemed to understand. He'd stumbled over his words when he'd explained it to her, and had seemed deeply uncomfortable at explaining his need to take care of her, particularly after having been so rough. Since their earlier lust had faded with the onset of the practical necessities of their situation, Hermione had mostly just been embarrassed.

She'd finished her toilet quickly then, climbing out the bath and trying desperately not to seem anxious about her own nakedness as she found a towel. She needn't have worried; when she'd glanced back at him, he'd only been washing his own hair, allowing her some privacy.

She'd ducked out of the bathroom then and dressed in her clothes from the previous night, which had migrated to the floor sometime in the night. By the time she was clothed, he appeared in bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist, his wet hair caught half over his eyes. He scrubbed a hand through it irritatedly, and a shower of water dripped onto his shoulders and the floor.

Hermione smiled then, and he caught it. He inhaled deeply then, and cocked his head slightly, focusing on something she couldn't perceive.

She knew his senses were stronger than most, not nearly to the level that his wolf self possessed, of course, but strong enough. His abilities tended to wax and wane‒god, what a terrible metaphor in this case, since it really wasn't a metaphor‒but he could usually smell and hear people fairly easily from far distances. As well as to smell certain  _things_  about certain people, she added wryly to herself, recalling her utter inability to hide her reaction to him the previous night.

"Only Sirius is here," he broke into her train of thought. "He's asleep in his room, still. So if you want to go..."

Hermione nodded briskly, trying to take the casual display of his more animal characteristics in stride. He normally hid this aspect of himself, she realized, and that suddenly made her a little sad.

_All I ever wanted was to be normal. Most of the time I can pretend, but... this..._

"I'm going to change my clothes and then make breakfast," Hermione announced after a moment. "Anything in particular you'd care for?"

He shook his head, still standing in the doorjamb. "Still recovering, so as long as it's edible, I'll take it. Protein would be appreciated, though."

"Of course," Hermione replied. She twisted her hands in front of her somewhat awkwardly. Should she just walk out? Give him a kiss goodbye? Shake his hand?

He obviously sensed her uncertainty. She saw it in the considering tilt to his brow. He walked in her direction, pausing at the chest of drawers beside her and pulling on a handle to reveal the meager contents within. Briefs and socks.

Hermione watched him quietly. He made instant decisions. Another drawer yielded trousers, another, an undershirt. He found a jumper in the last and tossed the lot onto the bed behind him. He turned to the wardrobe next, and extracted a somewhat worn set of brown robes. They too flew onto the bed, and he turned his back to her. "You don't have to go," he said conversationally. He whipped the towel from his waist, tossed it on one of the bed's posts. "And you don't need to do or say anything in particular, Hermione."

Hermione's face flamed as she watched him dress, her eyes drawn to his arse and the hint of motion at his front as he hiked a knee to pull on the briefs. Once he pulled on trousers, thus completely hiding that temptation from view, her eyes glanced to his injured side and back. Some of the bruising she'd spotted this morning had already faded into an ugly, mottled green and yellow. She wondered if he healed more quickly because of his condition, or if he'd taken a potion the previous day that sped up the process.

He shrugged on his undershirt. The jumper followed, and he turned back to her. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Hermione considered the question. She was satisfied with the decision that she'd made, she knew that already. She felt happy with Remus. But reality could also not be avoided.

She was seventeen. She was three months away from finishing sixth year. She'd had sex with a former professor, and member of the Order, and werewolf‒and they were now essentially bonded for life. They were in the middle of a war, Harry and Dumbledore were having secret meetings that she  _knew_  Harry hadn't told Sirius about, and everyone they knew but Sirius would probably be horrified by this latest development.

"Yes and no," she said finally, hating to give such an unsatisfactory answer. "It's just... Well, it's hitting me that there's..."

"...A lot of deal with," Remus acknowledged quietly. "I know." He stepped closer to her, and for a second she thought he might kiss her, but instead he leaned down and pulled her into a tight embrace.

It felt nothing like any hug she'd ever received. Nothing like a hug from her parents, or from Mrs. Weasley, or the always-reluctant ones that Ron and Harry gave her. It was honest. Remus cared for her, and wanted to keep her from harm‒physical and emotional‒and comfort her, and she felt as  _right_  in his arms as she had the night before when he'd been inside her.

Some of the tension she'd been agonizing over faded slightly, and she exhaled a sigh into the soft wool of his sweater.

"Needed that," she mumbled into his chest, and delighted when she felt and heard the catch of his laughter.

He released her, and was smiling gently. "I could tell."

Hermione took a bolstering breath. She squared her shoulders. "Meet you downstairs in a bit?"

* * *

Stepping out from his bedroom and walking to the landing and continuing upstairs to the room she ordinarily shared with Ginny felt like entering a new world. She opened her bedroom door and glanced around, taking in the half-rumpled bed, the slippers nestled under beside her nightstand, the dressing gown hung on the door to the ensuite bath.

Her schoolbooks still lay on the desk in the corner. Scrolls filled with her neat, careful writing lay stacked like honeycomb on a shelf. Her favorite quill sat at a neat seventy-degree angle in its stand. The pretty, beaded bag that her grandmother had made her when she was a little girl held a position of honor on her desk. She'd only finished it two days ago‒the innocuous little thing now bore a rota of charms that would easily have earned her an extra-credit Outstanding if she were to display it for Professor Flitwick.

All the trappings of her old life, held in stasis for the girl who had left her room yesterday afternoon, after having taken a long nap after a disturbing and exhausting night. That girl had been a student in the midst of an ever-escalating war, concerned with finishing homework and figuring out a plan to keep her parents safe and her best friends alive.

She was still that person, of course, but she was also  _more_. She wasn't a girl any longer. She had a mate. And she needed to readjust some priorities accordingly.

* * *

She cast  _tempus_  upon reaching the ground floor landing. Half eight. She'd taken some time to wrangle her hair into a French braid that looked as though it might burst apart at any moment. She'd also dressed in slacks and a blouse that she really hoped would make her seem older than if she'd chosen blue jeans, trainers, and one of the ratty jumpers that she typically favored over hols.

She might still be a teenager, and everyone knew it, but at least she could try to look the part of the brainy seventeen-going-on-seventy-year old that Parvati always accused her of being.

Still, she was no fool. Hermione strongly doubted that any amount of mature sartorial decisions would protect her or Remus from Mrs. Weasley's wrath. Or Ron's. God, this was going to be awful.

She stepped into the kitchen to see Remus with his head in the cold cupboard and steam rising from the kettle on the stove. Sirius was still absent; he kept erratic hours, and Hermione hoped that they would have some time before facing the inevitable inquisition from all quarters.

"You look lovely," Remus commented quietly, turning toward her to smile in greeting. "Tea in a moment. Hungry for anything in particular?"

He'd gathered a mound of mostly carnivore-friendly foods from the cupboard. Hermione stopped trying to differentiate between the mass of meat once she'd identified the thick-cut bacon, bangers, and black pudding that he'd laid out and realized that there were several other packages in the pile.

Remus followed her glance. "Comes with the territory, I'm afraid," he told her, sounding a blend of apologetic and uneasy.

Hermione smiled at him. "Well that's it, then. Can't abide that," she teased him gently.

He took the bait. "I should have known. The appetite for a full English breakfast, minus the beans, toast, and tomatoes, that is, is straw enough to break the hippogriff's back."

"Mm. Quite. If I'd known you weren't a vegetarian..." Hermione gave a mock shudder.

"Ought to have made it clear from the start. 'Remus Lupin. Am werewolf. Am not herbivore.'"

"'Hermione Granger,'" Hermione played along, openly giggling now, "'My, a werewolf! How  _fascinating_. What is this nonsense about not eating your vegetables? How terribly uncouth!'"

He laughed at her, and the kettle began to warble a particularly offensive Warbeck tune.

Hermione stepped beside him to retrieve two of the clean mugs from the cabinet and lifted the kettle off of the burner, pulling tea from the canister on the sideboard and preparing the two cuppas.

"So let's talk about this," said Remus evenly, as he uncovered a skillet and set it on the burner, dumping in a hefty portion of bacon. "How this will work, what you're expecting, any concerns you have. And so on."

"Yes, okay," said Hermione, somewhat jealous that she couldn't keep her voice as calm as his. "First, I have to go back to school," she said firmly.

"Of course."

"And‒well, the next full moons are the 22nd of April and‒Hermione consulted her mental calendar‒"the 22nd of May, and the 20th of June."

Remus glanced at her, keeping his attention only marginally focused on the food. "You know‒this isn't just for full moons, right?"

Hermione felt stricken. "Yes, of course‒I just thought‒" she cleared her throat uncomfortably. "I thought we could‒I wanted to be with you, for the full moons, so that‒so that they wouldn't be so bad. I was thinking that I might request special permission."

Remus's expression turned unbearably tender before he seemed to force his attention back to the breakfast preparation. "Hermione, I..." He paused. "I appreciate that very much."

Her heart seemed to beat especially loud in her chest. "Yes, well," she replied awkwardly. "I  _want_  to be with you."

And of course, it was true. How had things changed so dramatically in such a short period of time? She had Ron and Harry, the war, and exams, and N.E.W.T. preparation, and all it had taken was this revelation of his terrible vulnerability and dedication for her to realize that the responsibility she now bore to another person‒to Remus‒was just as important as everything else. If not more so.

She finished steeping the tea and carefully drained the leaves. Sugar and a dash of cream for her, a bit of milk for him, and she set the mugs on the kitchen table. She sidled up to Remus then, felt the warmth of him against her shoulder, and pressed her face to his arm.

She inhaled deeply, somewhat unconsciously, and picked apart the smells that lay embedded in the jumper he wore. Grass and cedar and petrichor.

She loved his scent.

He turned toward her then, pushing the skillet back with one hand and slipping the other to the small of her back.

He had to lean down quite a bit to kiss her, even when she went on her tiptoes. It was a gentle kiss, but the hands at her back and hipbone that pulled her flush with him belied his intent. Just as last night, just as this morning, he drank her in, and his lips and teeth and tongue told her a story of near desperate need.

She returned it in equal measure. He had lit a fire in her the previous night, had birthed a delicate blend of desire and love and excitement for this precious  _something_  between them.

He broke away from her mouth after a moment, breathing hard, his pupils blown. He murmured her name and wrapped his hands around her waist, spinning them on the spot and lifting her so that she sat on the edge of the countertop. She ran her hands through his hair then, smiling when she saw his eyes flutter closed. His lips were flushed and slightly parted. She pulled her fingers through the shaggy grey-blond strands and traced his ears with her fingertips, taking the chance to look at him‒to  _really_  look at him‒in the light of day.

Other than the scarring, which wasn't terrible on his face, he had very nice skin. He'd shaved that morning after their bath, but he was the sort of man who could never seem to get rid of a slight five o'clock shadow. His nose was straight and slightly narrow. He had high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. The combination was striking when he was well-rested, but the sharpness of his features tended to make his frequent exhaustion obvious. The skin around his eyes was prone to dark circles and several lines at his brow seemed permanently etched there, whether from pain, stress, or fatigue Hermione didn't know‒though she suspected a combination of all three.

She reached up to touch his forehead, smoothing down the lines and rubbing her thumbs from the bridge of his nose, over his eyes, to his temples. He sighed at the touch, and leaned forward to lean his head against hers.

"I don't know how this will work," he told her quietly. "Except to say that every half-dream I had of this possible future has been far exceeded by the reality. I don't deserve you."

"Says you," Hermione replied, just as quietly, setting her hands on either side of his neck. "I happen to think you're doing quite well so far."

He huffed a laugh. "Mm."

"I can't explain it, exactly," Hermione continued thoughtfully. "I know that logically, it doesn't make sense for us to have fallen into this so suddenly. I know I certainly never believed that a person my age could make a decision like this one. But I just‒I  _know_  it's right. It scares me a little."

"Believe me when I say I understand," he told her softly, his eyes still closed. "You have...you really have no idea what I've‒what it's been like. For me. I think I'd have gone mad without Padfoot."

It wasn't pity that she felt precisely, but rather an odd mix of sorrow and gratitude. "He helped you?"

He hummed his ascent. "He's always... he's always helped me more than I would help myself, frankly. Him and James both."

A sudden stab of heartbreak for this wizard caught Hermione in the gut. He had been alone for so long. The last of the Marauders to survive, only to realize that one had suffered needlessly in the worst of all hells on earth and the other had put him there.

She leaned forward then and gathered him in a tight hug. It was easier from this angle, since they were nearly level with her perched on the counter. He was a big man, as she had realized somewhat belatedly the night before‒ _and in more ways than one_ , she thought in a voice that sounded quite a lot like Ginny‒and she enjoyed the ability to hold him like this.

Her face pressed into his neck, she could feel his breath ghosting over the place he'd bitten her the night before. It shouldn't have been erotic, given that the bite really did sting quite a bit today, but it nonetheless made a coil of desire unfurl in her belly. He noticed.

"We really do need to eat something," he murmured against her skin.

She giggled. "Yes. Sorry."

"Don't apologize for that," he told her seriously, stepping back from her embrace and holding out a hand for her to grasp so that she could jump down from the countertop. "Speaking of which," he continued, and she was surprised to see a slight flush creep up his neck, "Do my‒ah‒abilities, I guess you'd call them? Do you find it‒does it make you uncomfortable?"

Once her feet reached the tile, she glanced back up and considered him for a moment. "Not exactly. It's obviously unusual, but I'm getting accustomed to it. It's not exactly something you can control. Just takes some getting used to. Your senses are more sensitive near the full moon, right?"

"Yes."

"It's pretty remarkable," Hermione noted curiously. "I mean, what an interesting insight you must have into others' behavior. It's not something that has been studied in any great detail because of the difficulty in assessing scent. A lot of research has been done in the Muggle world about body language and pheromones and involuntary nervous system responses, of course, but you must have a natural command of it. I suppose Professor Dumbledore takes advantage of that."

He was looking at her carefully. "A little. He prefers to capitalize on my access to other sentient magical creatures more. It really doesn't bother you? You seem more fascinated than anything else."

Hermione quirked her brow self-deprecatingly. "Look who you're talking to."

"Mm. Excessive curiosity as her chief trait does sound like a witch with whom I may have a passing acquaintance," he commented mildly.

"She sounds very bright and wise," Hermione said seriously. "I should like to meet her."

Remus grinned. It was transformative on his face, and it delighted Hermione so much that she impulsively stood on her tiptoes again to kiss him slowly. She could kiss him forever.

He cradled her hips in his hands and she could feel him straining in his trousers, the hard length of him pressing against her lower abdomen.

"Been like that all day, feels like," he muttered against her mouth. "Can't get enough of you,  _mate_." He punctuated his statement with a purposeful grind of his hips against her.

Arousal flared in her gut so strongly that a tiny moan tore from her throat before she could stop it. She pressed herself against him tightly, tilting her head back so he could kiss her again.

"Well. I suppose this answers  _my_  lingering questions."

Hermione was startled so badly that she actually jumped back from Remus. Her heart pounding in her chest, she whipped her head towards the kitchen entrance, where Sirius Black stood smirking.

Remus had gone tense and still. "Padfoot‒" he began in a low tone that sounded like a simultaneous warning and plea.

"Ah, ah, none of that," Sirius continued, grinning broadly now. "And here I was so worried."

Hermione was at a complete loss. Should she attempt to make a joke? Hide behind Remus? Sprint out of the room and never,  _ever_  come out again because her best friend's godfather had just found her snogging  _his_  best friend?

Remus faced his friend, his gaze dark and wary. He kept one arm wrapped around her waist and held her slightly at an angle to himself. Possessive, protective, dominant.  _She is mine_ , he was saying.  _Watch it_.

Hermione couldn't help the little thrill she felt at his display.

Sirius didn't miss it either. He held up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. His smile didn't dim. "Good on you, Moony," he said brightly, and there was enough honesty mixed in with the teasing lilt of his tone that Hermione knew he meant it.

Sirius glanced over at her, leaning exaggeratedly as a nonverbal comment against the way that Remus had her nearly hidden from view. "All right there, love?"

Hermione could feel the color that was rising in her face and resented it bitterly. Would she ever stop blushing? This was bordering on ridiculous. "Um, yes," she responded at last. "Perfectly well."

If possible, Sirius's smile went even wider. "Good. Good!" He stepped forward and clapped Remus on the back. His expression grew uncharacteristically solemn, and one of his hands gripped his friend's shoulder. "Happy for you, Moony."

Remus seemed to sag. The fight left him completely. His tension and fear melted away as though physical weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His arm dropped from Hermione's waist, he stepped forward almost unconsciously, and Sirius gripped him in a fierce, brief hug.

Hermione felt like crying.

Remus leaned into his friend, the unfettered relief in his posture so markedly different than the unbearable anxiety from seconds before that he hardly seemed like the same man.

Sirius stepped back, his entire attention focused on his friend. He settled his hands on Remus's shoulders and maintained eye contact, his grey eyes gleaming with conviction. "You're okay, Remus."

Slowly, Remus nodded.

"All right. Hermione, love, take care of Moony for me, okay?"

Hermione tried to speak, and found that she couldn't. She cleared her throat. "Of course I will."

"Excellent. Merlin's bollocks, Moony, how many werewolves do we actually have this house? Are there actually any pigs left in Britain, or did you blow all their houses down?"

* * *

"So," Sirius began conversationally once they'd scraped together a breakfast and dug in. They'd all three pitched in, avoiding the abraxan in the room by focusing on the meal preparation, and now, ten minutes into the meal, Sirius and Hermione had finished their plates. "Now what are you going to do?"

Hermione took advantage of Remus's full mouth to answer promptly. "Well, I obviously need to become an Animagus."

Remus choked on his food. Sirius grinned. "Brilliant. I expect you're halfway there already, aren't you?"

Hermione smiled modestly. "I did quite a bit of research during fourth year, and some of the preliminary exercises and meditation last year, but..."

"It's dangerous to keep going without someone to assist," Sirius finished for her, nodding. "I may know someone who can help."

"Absolutely not," Remus managed to get out after swallowing his food. Hermione found herself appreciating his table manners. How could she not, after nearly six years of spending most meals across from Ron? "Hermione, it's too dangerous."

"First, spending time with you during the full moon is non-negotiable," Hermione said firmly. "I already said I would try to get permission to come here for the rest of the year. Second, it would be much less dangerous‒even with you on Wolfsbane‒if I were an Animagus. Third," and she paused here, "we're in a war. The more advantages we have, the better."

Sirius jumped on the bandwagon. "Padfoot got me out of Azkaban, and Padfoot kept me out of Azkaban, Moony," he said quietly. "And if anyone can do it, Hermione certainly can."

Remus looked pained. "It's  _dangerous_ ," he repeated.

Hermione couldn't help the smile. "So is being Harry Potter's best friend," she countered lightly. "And going to school with the children of Death Eaters. And risking a meal in the presence of Fred and George. I  _can_  do this, and if Sirius will help me‒"

"‒which he will," Sirius interjected smoothly.

"‒then there's no reason not to do it."

Remus looked at both of them‒the two people, Hermione felt confident in thinking, to whom he would simply not say no.

"Fine," he said finally. "If anything happens to her, Sirius‒"

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Yes, right, because if I could get  _Pettigrew_  through it unscathed, I can't do the same for your mate?" He spat out the traitor's name like a bad word, and Hermione felt the old burn of anger in her breast.  _Wormtail_. Was there anyone aside from Voldemort himself she loathed more?

"You're right, I know, but‒"

"‒but you're scared for her, Moony, I understand," said Sirius. "I have been the one you've been whinging to about her, haven't I?"

Hermione flushed, and the color on her face was matched only by that on Remus's. "Whinging about me? Really?" she managed to get out, trying to lighten the atmosphere a little.

Sirius let out a sharp bark of laughter. "You've no idea, love."

Hermione glanced to Remus. "Oh?"

Remus shook his head ruefully. "Padfoot's right," he admitted. "You've really no idea at all. I've been unbearable, haven't I, old friend?"

"One word for it," Sirius agreed cheerfully. He turned his attention back to Hermione. "Any idea what you'll be?"

She shrugged. "I know I'll be a mammal, and one with a fairly good sense of smell," she offered up. "I only managed two sense meditations before‒well, before things got crazy during fifth year, and I haven't had time yet this year, with N.E.W.T. classes..."

"Please, as if you need to worry about N.E.W.T.s.," Sirius said dismissively.

"School is important," Hermione said sharply, and it was only the other man's uproarious laughter that made her realize that she and Remus had spoken in unison.

"That's right precious of you," Sirius said once he'd pulled himself together. "Do that often, and not even Molly will be able to say anything."

The mood instantly darkened.

Hermione sighed, and looked down at her empty plate. Remus grabbed her hand and held it tightly. "Let's talk about it," he said softly. "Better to figure it out now."

"Yes," Hermione agreed. "So what do we say?"

"Don't have to say much," Sirius offered. "You're of age, Moony's of age, he holds no position of authority over you‒not one that I want to know about, anyway‒"

Hermione reddened and Remus seemed to get taller in his chair, glaring at his friend.

"‒Okay, okay‒both of you are in good standing, or will be, in the Order, and this is an involuntary connection to which you have both consented. That's it. Bugger everything else."

"And have you met Mrs. Weasley, Sirius?" Hermione asked sweetly.

Remus snorted.

"I have, and took an earful from her yesterday," Sirius replied, any sign of levity entirely absent from his voice. His eyes narrowed. "She's a good woman, but she can be a right blinkered bitch if she wants to be. She's got her heart set on you as a future daughter-in-law, and since you're Muggle-born, she thinks she's got a right to you. She doesn't," he finished shortly.

"She thinks she has a right to Harry too," Hermione commented, surprised at Sirius's insight. "She is just... very protective."

"You've got a werewolf in your pocket now, pet," Sirius said, grinning. "I doubt very much any 'protecting' that Molly Weasley can do will quite match up. You have me, too, you know."

The notion that the fierce loyalty that Sirius had displayed for Remus the day before now extended to her was enough to make Hermione's throat grow tight. She realized now that she'd felt very alone since everything had come to light, even with Remus indisputably in her corner, and the knowledge that she possessed in Sirius as devoted an ally as one could have was a tremendous relief. She was enormously grateful.

"Thank you," she managed finally, and the kind smile that Sirius gave her demonstrated that he understood all that she couldn't quite say.

"Order meeting's at half eight," Sirius said after a moment. "I expect Molly will be along by four or so to commandeer the kitchen. You've got the day, loveys."


	3. Chapter 3

It was long until they were alone again. After cleaning up the horrific mess in the kitchen with a few flicks of his wand, Sirius had thrown them a wink, disillusioned himself, and very obviously left Grimmauld Place through the front door.

****

His reported death, his less-reported resurrection, Scrimgeour’s marginal willingness to occasionally listen to Dumbledore, and Madam Bones’ unrelenting quest for justice meant that Sirius was no longer under house arrest--his case was officially open, but there was no warrant for his apprehension and the official investigation was stagnant. He liked to flaunt that fact by taking his restored motorbike on very loud and very long rides.

****

Ah. There it was. The rumble of his bike was loud enough to penetrate Grimmauld’s wards.

****

“He loves that bike,” Remus commented fondly, staring down at the remains of his tea and swilling it a bit.

****

“I think I understand what you meant, earlier,” Hermione said quietly. “About relying on Sirius like that. I didn’t realize that he could be...”

****

“He’s a tremendous prat the majority of the time, and tremendously loyal all of the time,” Remus said quietly. “I am--we are very lucky to have him.”

****

“Yes,” Hermione replied simply. Sirius has frustrated her during her fifth year--his recklessness and immaturity had set an awful example for Harry, she’d believed at the time. Now, she thought she might understand a little better what it must have been like for him to feel so totally powerless to help those he cared for, how his circumstances had been so diametrically opposed to his nature.

****

The period of time the following summer where he’d been--gone? dead? in limbo?--had been awful for everyone. Hermione had never seen Harry like that, not even after the Tournament, and the brief glimpses she’d seen of Remus that summer had been heartbreaking.

****

“What are your plans for this summer?” Remus asked suddenly.

****

Hermione glanced up at him. She’d been staring at the grain of kitchen table. “I haven’t thought terribly far ahead,” she admitted quietly. “Unlike me, I know. My biggest concern is my parents. I need to--it’s just very difficult to explain what is happening in terms they understand,” she said unhappily. “I want to hide them, or move them, but I know for certain they won’t agree to leave.”

****

“They’re very likely to be targets. They probably already are,” said Remus softly.

****

Although she knew it to be true, it still hurt to hear. “I know,” Hermione admitted. “And things are getting worse every day. This past Christmas I put loads of wards up, but...”

****

“No ward stands forever against a sufficient opponent.” Though his tone was matter-of-fact, she could hear in him a thread of awful pain. Lily and James. And how many other friends of his had died? How many wards had fallen?

****

Hermione thought about her other ideas. _Obliviate_ , of course, but Voldemort had proven through Bertha Jorkins that Obliviation was not infallible. There were other options for memory spells, but some of them were too ghastly to contemplate.

****

Total erasure of self.

****

Hermione remembered the nightmare she’d had after third year. The Dementor’s Kiss. In her dreams, it had happened to Harry, or to Sirius, to herself, to Ron. The awful, unseeing blankness on the faces of those she loved had been a fixture of her fears ever since. She couldn’t imagine doing that to her own parents. What made up a soul if not the memories of a life led?

****

She shivered a little. She felt Remus’s hand on her arm. “I would be happy to add any protections I can, if you like,” he suggested. “I’m not sure if you knew this, but I do in fact possess some small talent in Defense.”

****

She smiled, and she could sense his satisfaction. “Yes, thank you. I would like to introduce you to my parents? If you don’t mind?” What had been intended as a statement had transformed into a question halfway through. Hermione scowled to herself in irritation.

****

Remus hesitated. “Of course, but...”

****

“It needn’t be--we needn’t explain everything,” Hermione said quickly. “I mean, there are certain things that they simply won’t understand.”

****

Remus lifted an eyebrow at her.

****

“Yes, well, as I said,” Hermione continued lamely. “It’s just--if I were to introduce anyone from the Order, I’d like it to be you.”

****

“I’d be honored to meet them,” he said finally, although his apprehension was obvious.

****

“Thank you. What about--what about your summer? What have you got planned?”

****

“So far, meeting Hermione Granger’s parents.”

****

“And will you be--will we be--um, living here? At Grimmauld?”

****

Remus set his mug of tea down on the table very deliberately. He looked up to meet her eyes. “I’m at your disposal,” he said seriously. “If you wish me to sleep at the foot of your childhood bed,” he said, a twist of distaste mixed in with his humor, “I shall do so. If you’d like to live here--with me--” he swallowed suddenly--“that would be--I would like that very much. But it’s your choice, even if--even if I haven’t demonstrated that much at all so far.”

****

Hermione was touched. “I--um--thank you, Remus.”

****

His eyes darkened. “Never doubt that I would spend every possible moment with you, if I could. If you’d allow it.”

****

The atmosphere in the room grew suddenly tense. Her mouth went dry; the surge of want that she had kept at bay for most of the morning flooded her senses. Faced with the prospect of others intruding on their private arrangement made both her and Remus feel enormously uncomfortable, she knew. The newness and strangeness seemed magnified, even with Sirius.

****

But in moments like these, she didn’t care. It was _easy_ to be with him, if she would just let it.

****

Before she knew it, she stood up and extended a hand to her mate. Her _lover_ , as of yesterday.

****

He took it without delay, rising from his chair immediately and banishing both their mugs to the sink with a clatter.

****

_I’m at your disposal_ , he’d said to her. She was beginning to realize that he meant it. He would do whatever she asked.

****

The responsibility was terrifying.

****

She led him from the kitchen, through the corridor and entrance hall, to the grand staircase. He sensed her nervousness then--and why should she be nervous, after last night?--and stopped her by snatching her hip with his free hand.

****

The contact made a jolt of desire streak through her.

****

“Hermione,” he said quietly, pulling her body towards his. She realized that she stood on the first step of the staircase, leaving them much closer in height.

****

He lifted their clasped hands to his lips. His eyes were locked on hers as he pressed her fingers to his lips. Her knuckles. The sensitive skin of her inner wrist. His other hand spread across the small of her back. She was barely breathing.

****

“I need to tell you that I regret nothing,” he told her quietly. “You’re a woman who has made her own decision. The others won’t understand, but given time, I think they will accept it.”

****

Hermione hadn’t quite realized until this moment how badly she’d needed to hear him say that. His certainty in her combined with his uncertainty in himself had conflicted her more than she could even now admit.

****

He’d seemed afraid. Guilty. Angry. Intellectually, she knew he felt shame over his werewolf nature and their age difference, but wasn’t at least part of that her fault? She was the _girl_ , after all--it was because of her that he’d been so tormented. He’d told her that he didn’t resent her, but the doubt had lingered.

****

_I regret nothing_ , he’d said in his calm, sure manner.

****

It was a profound relief.

****

In the next moment, he’d taken the lead. Still holding her hand close to him, he began the trek up the stairs. She followed, her heart thumping in his presence. He’d already told her that he loved her, that he didn’t resent her--

****

She felt a little bad that she was only now beginning to believe it.

****

The house was silent when they reached his bedroom. There was no hesitation this time. He swept her inside and the moment the door was shut, he pressed her up against it and kissed her desperately.

****

The fire inside her bones ratcheted up like a banked fire let loose. She kissed him back hard, and wound her hands up under his jumper and undershirt to press flat against his bare skin.

****

He pressed a knee between her thighs and she settled her weight on him unconsciously. His erection was hot and hard against her and before she had a chance to second-guess herself, she slid one of her hands down to touch him over his trousers.

****

He jerked against her hand and groaned into her mouth. His own hands moved beneath her blouse, trailing up her heaving ribs until they reached her breasts.

****

His single-minded desire for her was intoxicating. She gripped him more firmly, palming the stiff length of him, and he rocked his hips against her touch even as his hands slipped beneath her brassiere and took hold of the soft flesh there.

****

His touch was electric. She gasped into his mouth and they both broke apart at the same time. His eyes were wild. “Are you--are you sore?”

****

It took her a moment to understand his question but considerably less time to understand the frenzied need that was rolling off of him in heady waves.

****

They’d been engaging in foreplay since waking up that morning, Hermione realized, and she was _ready_. She was still sore, but the discomfort meant nothing in the face of this beautiful, perfect connection between them.

****

She leaned back towards him and her weight pressed heavily on the leg thrust between her legs. The sudden stimulation wrenched an unexpected grunt from her throat and her vision dulled for a moment. She was hot and wet and throbbing. Her body had not entirely recovered from their earlier exertions, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

****

It was answer enough for Remus. He stepped backwards purposefully and rid himself of his clothing. Hermione watched breathlessly as his body came into view. _Hers_. He was hers.

****

Moments later, he’d returned to claim her. He pulled her blouse over her head, tossed it to the floor, and pulled her hips towards him again. “Bed,” he murmured against her neck, licking a wet path from her throat to her earlobe, which he took in his teeth.

****

She shuddered against him. His mouth on her ear, his hand unclasping the last barrier between her breasts and him--it was all creating an overwhelming symphony of sensation that served only to intensify the fire in her blood.

****

She pushed against his abdomen with hers, urging him backwards toward the bed, which lay as rumpled as they’d left it that morning, and dropped her hands to her own trousers. She stripped in ungainly little motions, nearly tripping over her mary-jane shoe as she toed it off and tried to push the waistband of her slacks over her hips at the same time.

****

He grinned briefly at her undignified display as he freed her breasts from the bit of functional cotton and lace that constrained them. He backed up into the bed and fell back against it, catching himself with his elbows.

****

His legs were splayed open. His hair fell messily into his eyes. His lean upper body was hard with tension. His penis was dark with blood against his stomach. He looked so unbearably masculine that the sight of him made Hermione’s heart thud hard in her breast.

****

He must have seen the hunger in her eyes. A smile, dark with promise, spread across his face. He didn’t speak; he didn’t need to.

****

Hermione stepped towards him so that his legs touched either side of her hips and leaned down over him. His arousal was hot against her belly. She kissed him long and slow.

****

A moment later, he wrapped his arms around her waist, planted his feet, and dragged her back onto the bed with him. She laughed at the graceless transition. Her body heavy on his, they each wiggled a bit, trying to crawl up so that they weren’t in danger of tumbling over the edge of the mattress.

****

He broke first, laughing out loud at their uncoordinated scramble, and then kissed her brow with such tenderness that a bloom of happiness fairly exploded in Hermione’s stomach. She looked up at him, breathing hard from their migration from floor to bed, and trailed her hand down his side. She felt precious. Cherished.

****

He leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth, rolling them so that he settled heavy between her legs. His kissed his way down to her breasts, spending extra time around the love bites that he’d left the night before.

****

Hermione sat back and focused on the feel of his mouth on her body, on the hot length that he was rubbing into her hip, and wound her hands through his hair. She loved the weight of him on her, the way his chest hair felt against her skin, the heated desire in his eyes.

****

He looked up at her after a moment, releasing a nipple from his mouth with a slick _pop_. One of his hands that had been resting on her hipbone moved to the spot between her legs.

****

She sighed at the gentle touch of his fingertips against her sex. He inhaled deeply. A finger slipped inside her, fluttered softly against the spongy patch of nerves just behind her entrance, and her muscles went tense.

****

“Are you sure... you’re not in any pain?”

****

Remus’s voice was equal parts hesitant and urgent.

****

“I’m--” Hermione hissed sharply as he added a second finger--“I’m fine,” she managed, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “I’m fine, Remus. Please.”

****

He needed no further reassurance. He slid up her body, set his elbows on either side of her ribcage and then reached down to line himself up, mouth open and nearly panting with the anticipation of it.

****

He pushed inside in one smooth motion and Hermione cried out at the sudden intrusion. Just as the night before, he made her feel tremendously full; there was minor discomfort at the way his body between her legs forced her thighs wide, but above all--he felt _good_.

****

He had paused at her exclamation. “Okay?” Already his voice was thin, strained.

****

Hermione exhaled deeply, bit her lip as she concentrated on the feel of him. “Yes. Keep going.”

****

He dug his hands under her arms and back and gripped her shoulders for leverage, withdrawing slowly and setting a smooth, easy pace. He ducked his head into the crook of her neck. His soft, panting breaths blew hotly against her skin.

****

It was so different from the night before. Last night had he had _ravished_ her; he had been hot and demanding and desperate, clinging by a thread to his self-made resolution to let her set the rules. The experience had been entirely overwhelming in its passion.

****

This was--this was _love making_. They were as close as they could physically be; his skin was pressed scorchingly against and inside every inch of hers. The slick slide of him inside her was controlled and tender. He was mouthing her throat as he rocked his hips against hers, and she found herself planting her heels against the bed and lifting her hips to meet him in an attempt to draw out each stroke just a little bit more.

****

She dragged his hands from the short hairs of his nape down his back and pulled him to her, his name on her lips as she exhaled. Any pain, any discomfort she had felt at the beginning had gone away, replaced by the ardent glow of pleasure in her belly and her sex and her legs and her toes.

****

He moaned against her neck when she drew him closer, and his hips moved faster. He pulled back slightly, his eyes glazed over, his mouth open. “Hermione,” he gasped out, his hands grasping her shoulders tightly as he fought to maintain his pace.

****

He drove a little harder into her and Hermione cried out. It was too much. This was too much. His pelvis ground against her clit at every thrust--he reached down to touch her there, and his hips rolled and pumped into her, his rhythm began to falter, the strokes turning erratic--

****

Her orgasm was the crest of a slow, building wave. She wailed and tipped over the edge in an uncontrolled fall, shaking and trembling under him, her body squeezing tight against his. He groaned deeply, and she could feel him growing larger at the base. Now that she knew what it meant--and how wonderful it felt--she wrapped her exhausted legs around his lower back and hooked her ankles together, her body contracting with pleasure.

****

He gasped something that sounded like her name and drove hard into her, his entire length bottoming out. He drew a whimper from her throat as he swelled and swelled, his body exerting an unbelievable pressure against the sensitive tissue inside her, and the low, protracted moan that tore itself from his throat sent vibrations through her chest. His hips stuttered and tensed and he clenched her to him, and stilled.

****

Hermione wasn’t sure how long they lay there together, catching their breath as he pulsed inside her. He had buried his face in her hair, body half-collapsed on hers, as he spent himself; it seemed to go on forever.

****

He finally lifted his head to look at her. The slack wonder on his face struck her heart. She loved this. She loved this perfect, sublime closeness with him. “Amazing,” he mumbled at last, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek against hers briefly before he dug his arm under her back and rolled them over so that she lay atop him.

****

The movement was sudden enough that a jolt of pleasure shot through her gut, but Hermione was far, far too exhausted to do anything at all about it. She lay sprawled on top of him, his body still deeply inside hers, and focused on bringing her breathing back to normal. Her cheek lay on his chest. She could hear his heart pounding.

****

She was overheated and absolutely knackered. A pleasant ache had settled into the muscles of her lower half. She was done. Sated. He matched her, his long limbs sunk into the mattress, all tension gone from his frame. Hermione was delighted to have been the cause of that.

****

Was this what sex was like for everyone? Would it-- _could it_ \--always be this wonderful?

****

If so, Hermione thought she might be happy to remain in this bed forever.

****

Well, at least until hols were over.

****

For once, the thought of returning to school didn’t fill her with the usual anticipatory glee. Today was Tuesday. They had only until Monday before she had to climb aboard the Hogwarts Express and leave him. How could she leave Remus so soon after finding him?

****

She sighed heavily, finding it terrible to think of separating from him when she had never in her life felt closer to someone as she did in this moment.

****

“Hermione,” he said, his tone a gentle blend of supplication and reverence.

****

She smiled widely against his chest. She wondered if he could feel it. “Remus,” she whispered in return, tapping some unknown reserve of strength and using to lift her arm and find his hand. She intertwined their fingers together.

****

“I never--I _never_ thought that I’d get to have this,” he confessed quietly. Awe and wonder and almost incredulous gratitude colored his voice. “I can’t--I don’t know how tell you what it means to me.”

****

“I think I’m learning,” she responded softly, something awful and tragic taking hold of her heart and squeezingit hard. She took a deep breath. “I know that--I know that you didn’t get a choice, not really, but--” she paused to gather her courage, and then said very quickly, “--but I’m _glad_ it was me, Remus.” She swallowed. “I feel--I feel lucky to share this with you. I didn’t know it could be like this.”

****

He went absolutely still under her. If not for the _rallentando_ heartbeat in her ear, he might have been dead.

****

His hand suddenly clutched hers, larger fingers and broader palm making hers feel like the most delicate hand in the world. His other arm reached across her back. He held her to him. “Then I’m... I’m very glad, and very--honored--that this happened,” he said hoarsely.

****

They lapsed into silence then. Hermione felt him beginning to get smaller inside her, and after a few more minutes, he let go of her palm and used both hands on her hips to separate them. She felt strangely bereft when he slipped out of her, but the warm rush of fluid that followed was enough to make her face twist in embarrassment.

****

She planted a hand on the mattress, lifted herself up, and reached for her wand--where was it? God, she could feel it trickling onto him as well--this was so awkward--

****

“It’s fine, Hermione,” he said gently, interrupting her train of thought enough that she forgot her search for her wand and looked back at him, face flaming. “It’s mine, remember? There’s no need to--” he flapped a hand vaguely at her, indicating her scramble to clean up--“It’s not a big deal.”

****

She winced. “It’s just--you know--”

****

“If you can accept my--ah--” he went a little pink, and continued on bravely--“my _anatomical_ differences around the full moon, then I can certainly accept what gravity makes absolutely normal after sex. After _good_ sex.” He quirked an eyebrow at her.

****

She paused. He made sense. She glanced up at him, feeling a little mischievous. “ _Great_ sex, I think you mean.”

****

He laughed then. “The best.”

****

With that, he slid her to the side and sat up, scooting sluggishly to the edge of the bed and getting to his feet. Hermione was secretly thrilled at the way he seemed to sway once upright. Shakily, he stepped over to the pile of clothing they’d left on the floor--again--and dug around for his wand. He found it, and returned to the bed, flicking it at her with a concentrated look in his eyes.

****

Instantly, the mess disappeared and he set the wand down, rolling toward her and gathering her in his arms. “Better?”

****

“Mm. Thanks.”

****

“I aim to please.”

****

She could hear the amusement in his voice. “Think I’m silly?”

****

“You? Never.”

****

She lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “ _Never_?”

****

He laughed silently then. “Once or twice, maybe. Your boggart in third year, perhaps.”

****

A dull flush crept up her body, and Hermione dropped her head to his chest. He laughed harder. “I was _serious_ , that was the worst part,” she mumbled miserably against his skin.

****

“Oh, I know,” he said, still laughing. “I told Sirius about it, you know. He told me that as chief swot of the Marauders, it only made sense that my mate would be the swottiest swot to ever swot. He meant that in the best possible way, understand.”

****

She laughed, and then felt very happy that they’d both been able to talk about her third year--when they’d first met, and when he’d realized at the age of thirty-five that a teenage girl was his life mate--without feeling awkward or unhappy.

****

It was a victory. A small one, but a victory nonetheless.

****

“So, you were a little like me, then? In school?”

****

He shifted his body a little, turning on his side and drawing his arm up from under him to fold under his ear like a pillow so that he could regard her head on. “Mm. No. I was bookish, certainly, but I didn’t have the strength that you have. Still don’t,” he told her frankly. “I let Sirius and James call the shots, mostly.”

****

“Me? I don’t--I’m not--”

****

“Ah. There it is. Silly moment number two,” he cut her off lightly, tracing her shoulder with his thumb. “You _are_ strong, love. Don’t bother denying it.”

****

Remus’s straightforward flattery set alight a glow of pleasure in Hermione’s chest. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

****

“I got in my own share of trouble, too,” he continued on matter-of-factly, as if he’d said nothing of note. “Wasn’t just Padfoot and Prongs getting into detention, that’s for sure. I wasn’t quite the terror that they were, but I did all right, as Marauders go.”

****

Hermione smiled. “I’m scandalized.”

****

“Oh, the werewolf bit left you unimpressed, but the rule-breaking does you in?”  

****

Hermione put on her best prefect’s voice--the one that she’d used quite genuinely, ad nauseum, on Fred and George in her fifth year: “I’ll have you know, Mr. Lupin, that rules are _very_ important, and--”

****

He interrupted her with a quick kiss, eyes bright with mirth. He leaned back. “Wasn’t _all_ rule-breaking, of course.”

****

Hermione suddenly had an epiphany--god, how _could_ they have ignored this? “The Map!” she exclaimed, turning to him with huge eyes. “Oh, why am I only thinking of this now?”

****

“What about the Map?”

****

“Can’t you _imagine_ the possibilities?” Hermione asked him breathlessly. “We could generate a map of the Ministry, or of Headquarters, or the Burrow--Hogsmeade! And Diagon Alley! We could monitor the entire Wizarding World without actually needing to send anyone _anywhere_ dangerous. Think of the possibilities!”

****

Hermione's head was spinning. All of the Order’s surveillance could be done _remotely_ \--no need to send witches and wizards into harm’s way unless positively necessary, and even then--the element of surprise on their side could turn the tide of the war!

****

“It’s a brilliant idea,” Remus said slowly. “But Hermione, I really doubt that it will work. We _tried_ making maps of other places, when we were figuring it out,” he explained. Hermione’s excitement began to fade. “We tried mapping the Potters’--that is, James’s parents--and it didn’t work, not really. That was the summer after fourth year. We tried Hogsmeade, too, once we’d gotten most of Hogwarts to work, and it was Padfoot who figured out that it was the boundary wards around Hogwarts that made the difference. Hogsmeade has no _end_ \--Hogwarts is contained, even the grounds.”

****

Hermione bit her lip. Her _eureka_ moment dwindling, she worked through the implications of his reasoning. “So if containment is the requirement,” she said slowly, “we could do the Burrow, or Grimmauld. But public space doesn’t work, full stop. Not with the spells you used.” She narrowed her eyes. “What spells _did_ you use?”

****

Remus smiled. “That would take quite a long time to explain,” he said casually. “It was a very complicated project.”

****

“Oh, I know,” Hermione said eagerly. “It’s an absolutely _brilliant_ bit of magic--I mean, the security measures _alone_ \--!” She took a deep breath to continue, and then caught him laughing soundlessly at her. She recognized his intentions right away. “You-- _you_ \--”

****

“Can’t fault a man for seeking a bit of flattery from a beautiful woman,” he said in his defense, still grinning openly at her. “I’ll have you know that we finished most of it by the end of fourth year.” His tone dripped with false modesty. “And that the security measures, as you called them, were _my_ idea.”

****

Hermione rolled her eyes at him.“Oh, that’s nothing. _I_ went to school with the Weasley twins,” she said loftily, “in the era of Umbridge, in fact. I doubt anything the _Marauders_ did will impress me after that.”

****

“Oh no?” Remus said playfully. “The way I hear it, Umbridge was at Hogwarts during the era of _Hermione Granger_ , and to this day possesses a debilitating fear of centaurs, of all creatures.”

 

Hermione couldn't help the heavy embarrassement that flooded her face. "Well," she said gamely, "Touche'."

****

Remus chuckled, and then said, “More evidence of your strength, you know. There’s not many who would keep their head in that situation.”

****

Hermione’s mood darkened. “I was stupid.”

****

“What? No,” Remus disagreed, startled. “Hermione, you were in a very difficult position--”

****

“I _knew_ Harry hadn’t been keeping up on his Occlumency,” Hermione said quietly. “I knew it. And it was so _obviously_ a trap, and I did--I couldn’t stop him.”

****

Remus’s eyes went sad. “It wasn’t your fault, Hermione.”

****

Hermione looked away. She stared hard at his chest. “It was stupid of us, though.”

****

“You did the best you could at the time. And I daresay you--and Harry, and everyone who went--learned a valuable lesson. I know the Order did.”

****

“You must have...” Hermione met his gaze almost involuntarily. “God, you must have been so angry at us-- _Sirius_ \--!” She ducked her head, too ashamed to look at him. She’d seen firsthand how devastated he’d been, to have regained his friend only to lose him so utterly _needlessly_. Sirius had woken up, of course, months later, but no one--not even Dumbledore--had believed that he would. He’d been as good as dead until Samhain.

****

“It was a terrible time,” Remus said lowly. “You were--Hermione, you were hurt, too. It was--you have no idea how awful it was. I didn’t protect you, or Sirius.”

****

Hermione remembered the reverence with which he had touched the scar that bisected her chest. His fingertips traced it now, and she returned her gaze to him. He watched her somewhat sadly, his kind face lined with remembered helplessness.

****

She knew that there was more to this mate thing than simply the _mating_ part of it. He’d mentioned feeling protective and territorial over her. How horrible must it have been to feel like he’d failed? And how terrible for him to have hidden his most basic instincts from view, for fear of the disgust and shame that would no doubt have been heaped on him, with his only ally lying moments from death?

****

She sighed. Dread pooled in her stomach. “What time is it?”

****

He ignored the oddness of her sudden subject change and grabbed his wand. They watched together as the numbers formed in the air.

****

“Only five hours until Mrs. Weasley gets here,” Hermione said dully.

****

“How do you want to handle it?”

****

“I don’t know,” Hermione replied miserably. “What do you think she’ll do?”

****

“Probably come after me with a wand and demand to know if I laid a finger on you.”

****

“It’s _none_ of her business,” Hermione said passionately. “If we were _anyone_ else--if _I_ were anyone else--she’d be happy! And so would Ron and Harry!”

****

“Yes, I recall her giving me several disappointed looks after I refused Tonks,” Remus commented dryly.

****

Hermione stiffened. “ _Tonks_?” She stared up at him. “She was trying to set you up with _Tonks_?”

****

“Mm. Gave Sirius a right laugh, that’s for sure. Unfortunately, Tonks and Molly both are quite persistent.”

****

“Oh... poor Tonks,” Hermione said unhappily. “Does she have feelings for you?”

****

Remus shrugged as best he could while lying on his side. “She thinks she does. We’ve done a few missions for Dumbledore and I’ve let her down easy, but...”

****

Hermione frowned. “Will she be here tonight?”

****

“Probably.”

****

“Do you want... how do _you_ want to handle it, Remus?” Hermione asked quietly. “No matter what I say, it’ll be worse for you.”

****

Remus sighed. “In all honesty, it’s best to just come clean, I think. Now that we’ve--well, now that I marked you, I’m likely to be extremely possessive.” He sounded almost apologetic. “It wouldn’t stay a secret for very long because of that. So coming clean is the best option, I think. It will be uncomfortable, but I can take it. If we’re asked, all we need to say is that we’ve come to an understanding, we’re both adults, and that our private lives aren’t up for discussion.”

****

Hermione blinked. “You’ve thought this out.”

****

“Many, many times,” he admitted somewhat wryly.

****

“Do you think it will be--will it be very awful?”

****

“Padfoot told me he was going to talk to Harry,” said Remus slowly. “I’m hoping that will help. As for Molly...” he trailed off uncertainly. “I don’t know. But I’ve marked you, so there’s nothing to be done about it now.”

****

Absently, his finger brushed over the spot on her trapezius where he’d bitten her.

****

He’d _bitten_ her. How had this not registered before? How had she not immediately flown to her books, or demanded answers? She _knew_ the transformation was far more gradual than anyone let on--his “anatomical differences” were proof of that!

****

Hermione felt her eyes go progressively wider as she tried to make sense of her thoughts. “You _broke_ my skin,” she breathed finally.

****

Remus frowned. “Yes, I had to. It wasn’t--I wasn’t in full control,” he admitted to her a little uncomfortably. “It’s what sealed the bond, though.”

****

“But it was just after the full moon, and--”

****

Comprehension dawned in his eyes, and he gripped her upper arm suddenly. “Hermione, you’re fine,” he said firmly. “It was a mating mark, nothing else. You’re not going to--going to--” he broke off and shuddered a little. “If that were a danger, I would never have--god, I’d have left for the Continent right about the time I woke up on the train all those years ago.”

****

The anxiety and fear she’d begun to feel subsided. “So I...”

****

“You’re not a werewolf and you will _never_ become one,” he told her urgently. “I swear it. Because of me, you’ll feel antsy around the full moon, but that’s it.”

****

Hermione suddenly felt profoundly ridiculous. “Silly moment number three, I suspect,” she said weakly, offering him a pathetic smile. How could she have even thought that he would put her in that kind of danger? Didn’t she know him at all? Was she crazy?

****

He shook his head. “Not silly. I’m sorry I didn’t explain things.” He sounded miserable now. “I just--it was a very overwhelming day.”

****

Hermione had rarely heard a greater understatement. “You might say that.”

****

He huffed a laugh. “Yes.”

****

“So is there anything else I should know?”

****

“Yes,” he repeated quietly. He said nothing else for a few moments, fixing his gaze on her chest. “I marked you yesterday, when I bit you. It created a permanent bond between me, my wolf, and you, a bond built upon the scaffold of our pre-existing compatibility. It’s not especially complex--we won’t share thoughts or emotions, but rather... presence. Does that make sense?”

****

Hermione closed her eyes. He was physically close to her, of course, but there was more to it than that; his essence was _inside_ her somehow; a glow at the back of her brain that belonged there, but wasn’t her. It was solid, sure, unwavering; strength and certainty that wasn’t _hers_.

****

“I can feel it,” she said quietly, her eyes still closed. “It’s so... it feels so _safe_. Reassuring.” She opened her eyes to look at him.

****

He was smiling broadly at her. There was a trace of something in his eyes; joy and thankfulness and the slightest hint of incredulity. “For me, you feels like...” he cast about for the words. “Faith. Compassion.”

****

Hermione felt staggered. She wondered again, not for the first time, how _she_ could have come to mean so much to someone. To _him_.

****

“Anyway,” Remus continued. “The bond theoretically grows over time. I don’t know much more than that, since it’s a private thing and I’ve never been close enough to a mated pair to ask those kinds of questions.”

****

“It’s amazing,” Hermione said frankly. “How could there not be more literature on this? It’s a phenomenon! A wandless, wordless bonding ceremony that relies only on a _bite_ to achieve the desired effect.”

****

“There’s a little more to it than that,” Remus said dryly. “Werewolves are powerful magical creatures, Hermione--even the transformation, and the mechanics of the transformation, are up for debate, and it’s been _thousands_ of years. Extraordinary sorcery went into the creation of the first werewolf. It’s only natural that some of that would extend to behavior as well.”

****

“That’s true,” Hermione agreed thoughtfully. She chewed on her lip. “I remember reading about the different theories behind the transformation--”

****

She stopped. _Transformation_.

****

“What if you became an Animagus?”

****

True to form, Remus didn’t bat an eye at the seeming non-sequitur. “Definitely not.”

****

“Why not? I know werewolves are resistant to human and animal transfiguration, but--”

****

“The wolf is always there, love,” he said gently. “If I gave him four paws and a tail outside of the full moon, that would be the last thing that I--Remus--would ever do. I’d be a werewolf forever.”

****

The implication was scary. “So you looked into it?”

****

“Of course. After James and Sirius told me what they were doing, I researched it for myself. They told me they’d run across warnings for magical creatures--werewolves, veela, et cetera. I tore the library apart trying to prove them wrong, but...”

****

Hermione furrowed her brow. “I wish there were a way.”

****

“Me too.”

****

She sighed. “So what else should I know? Besides the ‘don’t worry, you’re not a werewolf’ bit?” She gave him a self-deprecating little smile.

****

He heaved a breath and rolled onto his back. “You should know that I have become very good at masking my instincts,” he began quietly. “Recent events notwithstanding. But the truth is that I am quite a bit more...” he hesitated, and she could see him searching for the right word. “Aggressive, I suppose, than I’ve seemed in the past. I’m not really sure how I’ll act once other men are around you.”

****

Hermione considered this. “This morning, in the kitchen,” she said thoughtfully. “You had to know Sirius was there. You had to sense him. I didn’t realize it then...”

****

“Because I was grinding into you like a schoolboy,” Remus muttered.

****

“That’s what you mean, isn’t it? You felt compelled to--to display your dominance?”

****

His face was a little pink. “Something like that. I wasn’t--I couldn’t stop myself from marking my--what I _perceive_ to be my territory. Usually I can.” He sounded absolutely miserable.

****

“So you’re worried that today, when the Weasleys are here and everyone from the Order...”

****

“Sirius is one thing. I _know_ him. I _know_ he’s not a threat to you, or to me. He’s _pack_. And if I behaved like that with _him_...”

****

“Oh my,” Hermione said, somewhat stupidly. Images of what might come to happen once Grimmauld Place was filled with other people flashed across her mind.

****

_Can't get enough of you,_ mate.

****

He’d been intensely possessive in that moment, she realized. Possessive, sexual, overpowering. And he was right--that had been because the person he trusted most in the world had happened to be right outside the door.

****

“So we might have a problem, then,” she said finally.

****

“Somehow I don’t think Molly Weasley will turn a blind eye to me mauling her sons because they happen to be in the same room as you,” Remus said darkly.

****

“Mauling? Remus...”

****

“I truly don’t know what will happen. I’ve--I’ve fooled myself into thinking that I had this under control. You only need to look at what happened yesterday to know that I don’t.”

****

Hermione took a deep breath. “So let’s talk about it. What can I do to make you feel secure? Like that no one else is a risk?”

****

“It sounds ridiculous when you put it like that.”

****

“Well, it’s not,” Hermione told him shortly. “You’re a werewolf, Remus. If I were afraid of you or your animal tendencies, I wouldn’t have agreed to stay and talk to you yesterday.”

****

He turned to look at her. “You mean that, don’t you?”

****

“Of course I do.”

****

He exhaled a long, shuddery breath. “Right. Okay.”

****

“So back to the question. What should I do to make you feel more secure?”

****

“Stay close to me,” he answered instantly. “Letting me greet people before you do. Don’t touch anyone.”

****

Hermione blinked. “Um, okay... even--even other women?”

****

“Yes,” he responded, and she could detect a faint hint of shame in his voice. He was staring up at the bed’s canopy. “I will probably perceive Molly as a threat, and...”

****

“Okay,” Hermione repeated. “So... will it always be...?” Was he seriously going to go barmy if she _touched_ someone before he did? How could she possibly go through social situations for the rest of her life like that?

****

“No. At least, I don’t think so.” He’d sensed her distress, she could tell. He twisted to his side so that they were facing each other again. “It’s that--the mating is _new_ , and I don’t--I’m _sorry_ , Hermione. I just--I need you to be prepared, and--and I should have told you all of this yesterday, it’s just...”

****

He obviously felt absolutely wretched. Hermione reached out to touch the skin of his cheek with her fingertips. “It’s fine,” she heard herself saying. “It’s fine. I’ll stay by you, and I--I won’t touch anyone before you do,” she continued. “For today at least. No promises after that,” she finished bluntly.

****

He surged forward and kissed her hard on the mouth. It was an apology kiss, Hermione knew, a _forgive me_ kiss. It seemed like all his kisses began that way, she realized, and wondered sadly how long it would take for him to stop believing that he needed forgiveness.

********  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** For fun, not profit.

 **Story Notes:** This part was a challenge for me. Hope you enjoy it.

**MOONLIGHT MADE**

**Chapter 4**

* * *

This was, Remus decided, not unlike the awful hours preceding the full moon. He was hyper‒aware of himself and Hermione. He couldn't stop fidgeting. He felt sick to his stomach. A familiar pit of dread was ballooning in his stomach.

Remus idly wondered if Molly would be horrified or pleased to learn that he considered facing her‒and the rest of the Order, of course‒tantamount to facing the agony and terror of the full moon. If he were less charitable, he would have settled firmly on "pleased."

He glanced over to Hermione, who was just barely visible inside his bathroom. Her angry puffs of air as she fought with her hair were the only sound in the room. He rather liked her hair as it was. Wild, untamed, unbound; it was her spirit in physical form.

Unbound. What a joke, Remus reminded himself darkly. The girl was now mated to a werewolf. To _him_.

She consented, another voice in his mind said. She _consented_. And she'd said only a few hours ago that she was _glad_. And a few hours before that, that she loved him.

If only he could believe her. He wasn't going to hold her to it.

He sighed heavily and fell back on the bed. After they'd made love again that morning, he and Hermione had stayed in bed for several hours. They'd talked at first, and then slipped into a nap. Remus couldn't recall if he'd ever felt so content in his life.

In fact, he knew that he hadn't. He'd heard stories, of course, of werewolves who'd found their mates. It was a relatively uncommon thing, of course, and he'd dismissed it as more of the ridiculous tales and myths about his kind that had permeated Wizarding culture. But then, years later, he'd met a mated pair, had smelled the bond on them, and he believed.

He hadn't thought about it since then, of course. Why would he have done? But then he'd been asked to come to Hogwarts to teach Defense, he'd woken up to a Dementor attack, and the only thing he'd been able to think was _protect your mate_.

He turned to watch her in the bathroom again. She'd gotten dressed in the same clothes from earlier, and hadn't quite had a chance to sort out their rumpled state. She'd been about to take a shower, but he'd asked her not to, compelled to make sure the smell of him on her remained there. Her feet were bare. Against the backlighting of the bathroom, he could see the silhouette of her body inside the pale blouse.

He nearly groaned. He was getting hard again. He'd hoped that the days of the near‒perpetual hard‒on in her presence would be gone once he'd mated her, but apparently his libido had other ideas.

He couldn't really blame it, though. The past eighteen hours had been a wonderful, unbelievable dream. Sirius had stomped into his bedroom yesterday afternoon, ignoring his weak excuses of needing to sleep it off.

" _Don't bullshit me, Moony," his friend said shortly. "You've been hiding in here all bloody day. The Weasleys are gone. I sent them off with Harry. She's downstairs."_

_The sense of betrayal was enough to make Remus actually lift his lips in a snarl. He didn't realize he was doing it until Sirius rolled his eyes._

" _Of the two of us, mate, I'm the only one who's actually got teeth at the moment, or apparently the stones to talk about this entire sodding mess. Get up, get changed, and come on. Padfoot'll drag you downstairs like that if he has to, but something tells me you might not want your mate to see‒or smell‒you like this."_

_Remus had been enraged. "Talking about yourself in the third person, now? Some of that Black family madness finally touching you in the head?"_

_The bastard actually threw back his head and laughed. "'Finally?' Where the hell have you bloody been?"_

_Normally, Remus was a pretty easy going bloke. He certainly worked hard to seem it, anyway. But he was beyond acting now, and he was only about seven hours removed from what had been one of his worst transformations in years, followed by possibly the most humiliating experience of his life, and he had no patience for Sirius fucking Black right now._

_Sirius was as observant as ever. He stopped laughing immediately. "Moony," he said seriously‒and the sound of his nickname made Remus calm down inexplicably‒"there's no running from this. She already knows it's her, but she doesn't know what it means. You want her making her opinions based on what she finds out in the Hogwarts library?"_

_Oh, god, no he didn't. He_ knew _what was in the Hogwarts library‒he'd had to endure the other Marauders' taunting for weeks after they'd found the bound collection of werewolf fiction._

"Oh, please, Mr. Werewolf," Prongs had gasped dramatically in a high‒pitched falsetto, "Please don't steal into my bed and ravish me! I know I'm your‒" _gasp_ ‒"one true love, and your destined wolfy mate, but I'm a good lady witch, and whatever will my parents say?"

" _What exactly am I supposed to say, Sirius?" Remus snapped at him angrily. "'By the way, you're my mate, I desperately want to fuck you, despite the fact that you're my former student, and by the way you're never allowed to touch another man in your life?'"_

_The old Sirius would have bust out laughing at him. The old Sirius would have made a couple of rude gestures and given him some tips on the so‒called wedding night. This Sirius was different, of course. "Don't be so melodramatic, Moony," he said instead. "She's a bright girl. She's rational. You owe it to her to explain a few things. You've controlled yourself until now, you'll keep doing it. But I'm fairly sure that you don't want her to leave this house thinking you fancied her when she was thirteen."_

_Remus was silent._

" _We've talked about this, mate," Sirius continued patiently‒and god, had anyone ever contemplated the words 'Sirius' and 'patient' in the same sentence before? "We decided you would tell her when she turned of age, so she would at least understand some of your behavior, maybe make some kind of decision. You could have told her over Christmas hols, and you didn't. Well, now you don't get the option anymore."_

" _She's a student, Sirius. She's a girl."_

" _She hasn't been a girl since‒oh, about her fourth year, I reckon. She's a witch fighting in a war. You really want to be the kind of distracting little mystery that gets her killed? She's seventeen, you ponce, and Merlin fucking himself has decided that you two are meant to be. Did your bollocks decide not to follow you back to your human form this morning, or something?"_

_Remus actually growled at him. God, he hated being a werewolf._

_Sirius grabbed his arm. They were about the same height and weight, but the night before had been a full moon. There was no chance of physically out‒matching him today. He dragged Remus to the side of the bed, hauled him to his feet, and pushed him roughly in the direction of the bathroom._

" _Go take a fucking shower. You smell like wet dog. Then put some clothes on, remember that you were a Gryffindor,_ and _a Marauder, mind, and go talk to her."_

From there, things had unfolded in a way that Remus had never dared to entertain, not even in his most optimistic fantasies. She had been lovely, and considerate, and she looked at him with those wide brown eyes and said simply:

_I'll be your mate._

"Remus?"

He blinked and looked up at her. She'd somehow gotten her hair to agree to stay in some kind of pretty little knot at the base of her skull. She'd buttoned her blouse so that no hint of his mark could be seen. The wolf inside him protested at that, but Remus could ignore him for this at least.

She was looking at him with an amused quirk of her lips. She looked enticing when she did that. Hell, she looked enticing when she did _anything_ , and Remus really needed to get control of himself.

"It's nearly four," she told him after a moment. "Time to go, I think." He could hear the tremble in her voice. She was nervous‒beyond nervous, really. She was terrified.

Remus hated it. Intellectually, he understood that there was nothing he could have done to prevent her from being his mate. He knew that she had also made the decision to accept him of her own free will. He'd spent the past three and a half years coming to terms with the fact that he was not at fault, not really.

But it still hurt that she was forced into a position where she might be ostracized because of him.

She held out a hand to him. Her hands were small and slender. Her nails were uneven, and she seemed to have a permanent ink stain on her right middle finger. He loved her hands.

He took it and stood up, gesturing at himself with his wand to straighten his own clothing. "Remember," he said slowly. "Please‒please stay close to me."

God, it sounded so pathetic. And the wolf loathed the fact that he had to ask her. The wolf wanted him to grab hold of her waist and drag her to the bed and fuck her. The wolf could smell her, could taste her, and he had no interest in trying to play nice with anyone.

He swallowed tightly. No doubt Hermione could see the tension in him, because her eyes went soft, thoughtful. She squeezed his hand with hers, and tilted her head up so that she could press a very soft kiss to his neck.

It was amazing what his mate could do to him. He felt calmer instantly; the touch of her lips somehow radiating contentment and ease and reassurance. How had he ever braved the wolf without her? How had he done it alone?

"Come on," she said quietly, stepping back and taking a deep breath. She squared her shoulders. He could tell the moment she set aside her own personal fear, her own hesitation. It was an amazing thing to witness; she had done it the night before, too, in the library. She'd been as mortified as he, and had simply moved past it as though it were only a minor obstacle in her path.

He let her lead him to the door, but he couldn't follow her past that point. Instead, he pulled her arm taut, stopping her in her tracks. "I need to‒I have to go first," he explained, trying to follow her example and simply push past the discomfort. "Please."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. He loved that expression on her, too.

"Sure," she said finally, moving aside so that he could pull open the door, smell for intruders or threats. There was no one yet, but night was approaching. It wasn't dark yet, but it would be soon. Everyone would be coming.

"It's fine," he said unnecessarily, and Hermione was gracious enough not to comment with an acid _obviously_.

The walk to the first floor went quickly. Remus kept her hand locked in his own, and kept himself a half step ahead of her. He was on edge; his nerves sang like he was preparing for a fight, his heart kept a steady clip.

It wasn't just that he had no desire to face the Order with his barely‒legal mate in tow; it was the bond itself. He hadn't lied to Hermione earlier; it was _new_. This was the first time that either of them would be faced with non‒pack. His compulsion to protect her, to keep her safe, to make sure that everyone _knew_ that she was his, was overwhelming.

God. There wasn't even anyone here yet. _Sirius_ wasn't even there‒he'd gone to the Burrow hours ago to try and smooth things over as much as possible. Sirius the diplomat. Almost as wild as Sirius the _patient_.

"Drawing room, Remus, come on," said Hermione. She jerked her shoulder in the direction of the open doorway.

"Right," Remus said. His voice was rougher, lower, and the wolf inside him was ready for a fight. Was _raring_ for a fight.

This was dangerous. He had to calm down.

He stalked towards the drawing room, pulled her to one of the less moth‒eaten sofas and sat her down. He couldn't stop himself from scanning the room, inhaling deeply to scent out anything untoward.

Hermione was watching him intently. Remus instinctively pushed at her presence in the back of his mind. _Faith. Certainty. Commitment._

Before he knew it, he sank down beside her, leaning forward to rest his shoulders on his knees, hanging his head down. "I don't feel in control," he told her in a low tone, knowing that it would help to tell her, even if his rational brain‒his human brain‒was appalled at him.

She rested a hand on his shoulder blade, and dragged it down the length of his back, rubbing circles into the tight muscles. Her other hand was clenched in his. "You are, though," she told him quietly.

Her calm reassurance was just as effective as the feel of her bond in his mind. It washed over his nervous system like a cleansing ocean wave; smoothing the rough sand of his consciousness and leaving it impenetrable; untouched.

He exhaled heavily. "I hope so."

"You are," she said again. "We don't have to... we don't have to do this, you know. I can cast a mean _colloportus_."

She was teasing. "As delightful as it sounds to adjourn to a locked room with you, Hermione..."

She giggled at him. It lit up his heart to hear, and he lifted his head to meet her eyes. She was blushing. "I'm okay," he said, and he was startled to find that it was true. How was it possible that just her presence, her willingness to comfort, could soothe him like this?

He was starting to realize that while he'd spent the past years agonizing over his side of things, he hadn't realized what it would do to him to have her acceptance. To be hers, and she his. How could he have? The only thing like it was his friendship with James and Sirius, and he'd long ago believed that he would never find something like that again.

But here it was. Here _she_ was.

When it happened, it happened quickly. He could hear the kitchen floo two floors away burst into life. Bodies stumbling out of the flames. The acrid scent of floo powder combusting. Loud voices. A second later, a light _pop_ that indicated Sirius's arrival.

Remus had to fight not to immediately rise to his feet. Hermione kept her hand on his back.

Boots stomping up from the kitchen to the ground floor. The shrill tones of the Weasley matriarch. Twin voices cajoling, laughing. The earthy scent of vegetables and flour and the delicious rush that was raw beef being slammed down on the kitchen worktable.

Molly's voice demanding to know where _the werewolf_ was. Sirius's indistinct reply. The thump of clatter of feet on the staircase. Down the hall towards the drawing room.

Remus couldn't stop himself. He stood up and stepped in front of Hermione, shielding her from view of the door. He heard her whimper a bit, and instantly relaxed his death grip on her hand, squeezing it once more in apology.

His heart was pounding, his veins and arteries dilating, he was _itching_ for a battle. It wasn't until Hermione's hand reached around his lower back to snag at his shirtsleeve did he realize that he held his wand in his hand. "Remus," she said, a hint of reproach in her tone, and again he calmed.

Bugger.

The door slammed open. Molly stood there in high color, her hair wild and frizzing around her facing like a ginger halo. Her lips were pursed tightly.

Everything went absolutely still, and then Remus found himself speaking. "Molly, please be very careful with what you choose to say right now." His voice was low, sedate, with a thread of aggression at its base that the fiery witch would have to be deaf not to hear.

Her expression didn't change. "Remus Lupin, she is a _child_ ," she said flatly, and somehow, her lack of hysterics was even more provoking than if she'd been screaming at him, like she had done yesterday.

The wolf was crouching, his muscles coiled and hot, but Hermione still held his hand. She was still there, in his mind, and the wolf listened to her.

"She's not a child, Molly," Remus responded evenly. "And even if she were, she still wouldn't be _yours_."

Molly paled a little. Her lips went, if possible, thinner.

"Mrs. Weasley," Hermione said suddenly, and Remus was almost shocked to hear her speak. Beside him, she stood. The wolf didn't like that, but Remus ignored it. "Mrs. Weasley," she began again. "I appreciate your concern. But Remus and I have come to an understanding, and I would appreciate it if we could simply move on."

If the situation had been less uncomfortable, Remus would have been amused at the way that Hermione had repeated his own planned speech nearly verbatim.

"An excellent idea," came Sirius's voice from behind Molly. The witch started at the sudden interruption, and moved to the side enough that Sirius was able to sidle past her into the room.

Padfoot caught his eye, winked once. "All right there, Moony?"

Remus nodded. The tension in the room was at an all‒time high. And then Molly caught sight of their clasped hands.

"You‒ _she_ ‒" she sputtered. "How _dare_ you!" And then her wand was in her hand, and Remus lost it.

He growled, low in his chest, and his own wand was suddenly in hand, how dare _she_! For a moment, he saw her eyes go wide with surprise, and then‒

Sirius strode toward him, grabbed both Remus and Hermione by the shoulder, and‒

 _Pop_.

Sirius had apparated them into Remus's bedroom. Hermione swayed slightly at the sudden apparition, looking ill, and Remus shot a murderous glare at his oldest friend.

"Get a grip on, old man," Sirius said firmly, still clasping his shoulder, and disapparated again.

God, he really was an animal. Angry and keyed up and humiliated, Remus stood stock still, breathing heavily through his nose. Why had he thought that this would be manageable? He'd been in Molly's presence for _two minutes_ and he'd _lost_ it. Merlin, he'd _growled_ at her!

"Remus, it's fine," Hermione said softly, sounding a bit breathless from the unexpected apparition. "Mrs. Weasley isn't going to hurt me, you know that."

And of course, he did. The very idea of Molly Weasley drawing her wand on _Hermione_ was laughable. The witch really did love her like a second daughter‒or prospective daughter‒ _in‒law_. Remus curled his lip. Well, that wouldn't be happening.

He turned to his mate and kissed her roughly, tasting the teeth and lips and tongue that had become so familiar and precious to him over the past day. It took her a moment to respond, but she did respond, standing on tiptoe and drawing her arm up to curl around his neck.

After a moment, he felt that he could stop kissing her. He pulled back, but kept his hands on her. Her heartbeat was racing. Her breaths came quickly against his own chest. He sighed heavily and leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. A swell of resentment‒for himself, for the wolf, for their circumstances‒grew in his heart. "I'm sorry," he murmured finally.

She ducked her head into his neck, resting her ear on his shoulder. Her lips grazed his skin. "Don't be. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I nearly attacked _Molly_ _Weasley_. If not for Sirius..."

"You didn't attack her. Besides, I had my wand out, too, you know. I would have stopped you, but you know that you wouldn't have done it."

That was the thing. He _didn't_ know whether or not he would have done it. Unbridled self‒disgust bubbled up inside of him. "Just the kind of man I want to be‒one that needs to be brought down like an animal when cornered."

"That's not what I meant," Hermione said after a beat. Her voice was small. "You said it yourself. This is new. We're going to have to work it out." She stepped back from him suddenly, her gaze very firm. "And we _will_ work it out. I've absolutely no intention of following behind you like a meek little wife for the rest of my life."

Remus mentally paused on the word _wife_ and decided to shelve that thought for the moment. "I know you don't."

"So we'll get it sorted," she said confidently, as if it were a foregone conclusion. He could sense that she was projecting a bit of bravado, but he found that he didn't really care. Her reassurance‒her gentle presence in his mind‒was far more effective on his animal nature than any stunning spell.

He nodded at her finally. She beamed at him. "Ready?"

He leaned down again and kissed her very chastely on the lips. Funny that it was this kind of kiss, the sweet and delicate kind of kiss, that felt more forbidden than anything that they had done so far. He had fucked her, made love to her, but the idea that he was allowed to take this kind of kiss from her was almost too much to be believed. "From this day to the ending of the world," he told her absently.

Her eyes lit up. "But we in it shall be remembered‒"

"We few, we happy few," he finished for her, smiling now.

"We band of‒" she stopped and frowned. "The analogy gets lost on that phrase, unfortunately."

"Not if you include Sirius," Remus offered, the sudden lightness in his chest such a contrast to his dark mood from only moments ago that it shocked him. Only Hermione.

"True," she acceded. "When did you read about Harry the King?" She sounded partly accusing, delighted, and curious. It was the kind of combination that only she seemed to manage.

"When I was young," Remus told her, memories that he hadn't thought of in a long time coming to the fore of his mind. "I'm a half‒blood, you know. My mother was a Muggle‒born. Her parents loved the theater, and passed that down to her. I think one of my uncles was an actor, in fact. I can't be sure‒after I was bitten, we didn't see them very often." He tried not to let the old bitterness show in his voice.

From her stricken look, he wasn't successful. "What happened‒are your parents...? Why didn't you‒?" She cut herself off, flushing. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to‒"

He couldn't help but smile at her; this lovely, compassionate creature that was his mate. "My parents are gone," he said quietly. "My mother died in a Potions accident when I was in my third year and my father was killed shortly after I finished school, in an attack on the Wizarding village where he lived." The sudden grief he felt was not quite his own, Remus realized. It was _hers_. "As for my mother's family," he continued slowly. "They knew she was a witch, of course, and that she'd married a wizard. But my lycanthropy... they would not have understood. Particularly as I was very young and not able to mask my condition then. I simply didn't understand, and I frequently bore injuries that would have horrified my mother's family."

Hermione looked heartbroken. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but thought better of it, choosing instead to wrap her arms around his waist tightly. She pressed her face into his chest.

It was amazing, Remus thought vaguely, that it seemed that she could allay old hurts as well as new ones.

He inhaled deeply. Sirius was was approaching their room. No doubt he hadn't wanted to risk apparating into it‒it was certainly obvious enough what he and Hermione had been spending the majority of their time doing.

Padfoot's knock at the door startled his mate, though, and she jerked her head to look as it swung open to reveal Remus's friend.

Sirius was very exaggeratedly holding a hand over his eyes. "Is it safe?"

Safe. Remus inwardly winced at the choice of words, though he knew nothing was meant by it.

"Of course," Hermione said in that adorably prim tone she used when she was trying very hard to overcome embarrassment.

Sirius dropped his hand and grinned at them. Remus hadn't seen his friend this happy since Harry had come to live at Grimmauld the summer before his fifth year. The idea that his happiness was on Remus's behalf... well, he'd always been grateful for his friends. This was more evidence as to why they deserved his gratitude. Remus doubted that he had ever been as generous to himself as his friends were to him.

"How precious," the other wizard said, gray eyes glittering as he looked at their chaste embrace. "Whole crowd's downstairs," he said, more for Hermione's benefit than Remus's. "Arthur thought ahead and brought along some Calming Draught, so Molly won't go _Reducto_ on anyone. I talked to the twins, too, called in some favors, and they're prepared with a couple of distractions just in case."

Remus wasn't sure whether he ought to be mortified or thankful. Hermione stepped away from him, keeping her hand clasped in his. "And..." she began uncomfortably. "And Harry? And Ron?"

"Downstairs, too. Both in a bit of a shock. I explained some of it to them but I left out of some of the more kinky details. So it's up to you."

Hermione's face flamed and even the wolf was angry on her behalf. "Sirius," Remus snapped out before he could stop himself.

His old friend looked unrepentant. Naturally. "They're all in the downstairs drawing room. Molly banished everyone but Ginny from the kitchen. All right, Moony?"

Sometimes, Sirius had a way of saying 'Moony' so that the wolf knew he was talking to him. It was uncanny. Remus couldn't help the deep inhalation of air through his nose, and the slight cock of his head while he listened to the house. Everything Sirius was saying was true; his senses were already starting to dull now that the full moon had passed, but there were several Weasleys in the drawing room and sure enough, he could hear the vicious clang of pots and pans in the kitchen several floors below them.

"I'm fine," he said after several heartbeats' worth of observation.

"Good. I adjusted the wards so you're able to apparate in the house," Sirius continued briskly. "Don't hesitate to do it."

The relief was instantaneous. "Thanks, Padfoot."

"All right then." Sirius stepped back and disapparated again.

It was time.

* * *

By the time they reached the drawing room for the second time, quite a few more people had arrived. Remus stepped inside the room, holding Hermione's hand in his, to find that Bill, Fleur, Charlie, the twins, Ron, and Harry were inside, the latter two having begun a tense and distracted game of chess. The twins were telling an animated‒and explosive, based on the faint scent of gunpowder in the air‒story to their older siblings. Tonks stood by the fire, a look of thunderous malcontent on her face. Her hair and eyes were dark, and Remus realized she had never looked more like a Black in that moment.

He remembered his taunt at Sirius the day before.

_Some of that Black family madness finally touching you in the head?_

The thought made him pull Hermione close to him, and she allowed it, even as the heads in the room looked up and noticed their entrance. Remus was on edge, but he could sense no imminent threat from anyone, no scent of danger. His heart rate was elevated, but not inhumanly so.

But he was shocked when Fleur was first to rise and speak. The beautiful Frenchwoman smiled prettily at them both, stepping away from Bill to walk over. She clasped her pale, manicured hands together, holding them before her so that Remus could plainly see she held no wand.

" _Monsieur_ Lupin, 'Ermione, _félicitations_. My Beel 'az told me of what 'appened, of course, an' I was so 'appy to 'ear of your, ah, _comment dit‒on 'accouplement'_? Your mating. Zis ees an 'appy day een such dark times, _non_?"

For a split second, Remus thought that he had absolutely lost his mind. But then he realized; she was a quarter‒veela. Werewolves were certainly not the only creatures to experience mating bonds‒no doubt she had grown up hearing romantic stories from her kin. And as a part‒creature herself, she was obviously more sympathetic to the magic of it than even Sirius.

What bizarre luck he was having these days.

"Ah, thank you, Miss Delacour," he said hoarsely, finding his voice. "I appreciate that."

He didn't need to see Hermione's expression to know that she was beaming. " _Merci beaucoup_ , Fleur."

" _De rien_ ," Fleur responded in fluid French, and turned to look at Remus, her head tilted slightly down, her sheet of silvery hair falling forward to frame her face. "Eef I may, _Monsieur_ Lupin, I would like to be geeving an 'ug to your mate?"

Her honest pleasure and submissive manner were enough to calm the raging wolf in him that wanted to keep anyone‒ _everyone_ ‒from coming close to Hermione.

The room was absolutely silent. If he were to break his gaze from Fleur, he knew that he would see all of the Weasley men and Harry staring, mouths gaping open, at the scene. This was better than their original plan, he decided, of trying to sneak into the room relatively unnoticed

He finally nodded at the Gauloise. "Certainly, if Hermione would like."

Fleur smiled again, and although he was unaffected, Remus could feel the pheromones she was quite unconsciously emitting. So could the rest of the men in the room‒the collective inhalations and Bill's smug _mien_ were proof of that.

She leaned forward, set her hands on Hermione's shoulders and leaned in to give her a double, heartfelt _bisous_ and then drew his mate into her arms and hugged her quickly. " _Ma petite_ , what a delightful zing for you. To 'ave your soul mate so young." Fleur stepped back then, smiled again at Remus, and turned to return to Bill's side.

The silence lasted for about a half‒second before the youngest Weasley boy lost it.

"Are you _bloody serious_!" he shouted, bolting from his chair, his fists clenched and ears bright red.

Remus put his body half in between Hermione and Ron. This was expected, he told himself, this is what we expected. It didn't help the wolf. He wanted to fight.

"Ron!" Hermione shouted, half‒alarmed, half‒scolding.

"You‒you and _Lupin_!" Ron had completely lost the thread. "He's a _teacher_ , Hermione! He's twenty years older than you! He's a _werewolf_!"

The wolf in him wanted him to growl and snarl, to say _give us another month and we'll introduce you to a werewolf_ , and Remus fought hard to tamp him down. He reached desperately into the space of his mind that Hermione occupied, let her wash over him. His eyes were narrowed on Ron, he knew, and his jaw clenched, but he wasn't saying anything, not yet.

"Yes, thank you, Ronald," Hermione spat acidly. "I hadn't realized he was a werewolf before. Thank you for your illuminating contribution."

If he wasn't so angry, so focused on trying to remain calm, Remus might actually have laughed.

"Did you‒are you‒?" Ron was incoherent. Beside him, Harry simply looked alarmed.

"Hermione is my mate," Remus heard himself saying in a low, harsh rasp. "Yes, it's because I'm a werewolf. And you might wish to remember that before you move any closer, Weasley."

The only sound in the room was Ron's harsh breathing and the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

Ron stared wildly at the two of them for a moment before sinking down to his chair.

By the fire, Tonks was watching the interaction like it was a particularly tragic bit of theater. Her gaze was shuttered. No sign of her normally buoyant, cheerful personality lingered in her expression. She glanced up at Remus, eyes suddenly displaying one emotion after another‒hurt, anger, sadness‒before she mastered herself again. "Congratulations," she said a low voice, her hands deep in the pockets of the Auror robes she had yet to change out of. "Hope you'll be happy, Remus."

She sounded anything but gracious, but Remus couldn't blame her. He appreciated the effort, particularly in contrast to the younger Weasley still fuming on his sofa.

"Right then," said one of the Weasley twins, both of them bouncing towards him and Hermione so suddenly that Remus couldn't help but step forward aggressively. At least he wasn't growling.

No one could ever call the twins unobservant, though, and they both stopped dead in their tracks at his movement, hands raising in a sign of surrender simultaneously.

"Easy there, Remus," said George, grinning.

"Just wanted to pass on our best wishes‒"

"‒to our very favorite of all‒"

"‒purveyors of aids to magical mischief makers. Excluding ourselves, of course," the twins finished together.

The identical pranksters grinned and held out a box that had been wrapped in their signature WWW magenta.

"A little gift best opened in a spot of privacy," Fred said, winking wickedly.

Behind him, Ron let out a strangled groan.

"Or not," George added.

"Eendeed," Fleur commented impishly. "Eef you 'ave given zem anytheeng what you 'ave given me an' Beel, I should like to see."

Hermione made a kind of choked sound and buried her face in his arm. He glanced down. She was beet red, but there was really nothing for it. He reached out, took the gift with a nod, and shrank it with a quick tap of his wand. He slipped it in his pocket. "Thank you, boys."

"No, no, Remus," said Fred, "Thank _you_. Mum's not been in a tizzy like this since we left school."

"Or moved out."

"Or had that bit of fun, what was it, two Sundays ago, Gred?"

"Two Sundays ago it was, Forge," said a twin fondly. "I have to say though, Granger‒"

"‒we're right dead impressed."

"Didn't think you had it in you."

"Getting involved with a Marauder, and‒"

"‒Poor little old us, just waiting for your favor one day‒"

Remus actually did growl at that. It tore out of this throat before he could stop it. He _knew_ they were teasing, but the implicit threat‒their threat to _his_ mate‒"

Hermione laid a hand on his arm. He stopped immediately, glancing down to see her little hand pale against the dark brown of his robe. "It's okay, Remus."

God, just when he thought this situation couldn't be more humiliating. This fucking wolf.

Silently, the twins stepped back, still smiling, but their eyes were wary. Good, Remus thought mutinously.

"Ah, do not tease 'im," Fleur said helpfully, with a tinkling little laugh. "Zat weel not be appreciated, if 'e eez anyzing like my muzzer or gran'muzzer," she added. "Zey 'ad a tendency to‒ah‒show zair, Beel, what are zey calling zem? On ze birds?"

Bill opened his mouth to answer, but Fleur found the word she was searching for. "Fezzers! _Oui_ , sometimes ze family deeners can be getting very 'eated, very eenteresting when my fazzer's family came."

"Yes," Remus said distantly. "Yes, I can imagine."

Was this really happening? Were Sirius, Fleur Delacour, and the twins‒of all people!‒forming some sort of bizarre coalition?

If James were here, Remus thought suddenly, sadly, he would be laughing his bloody arse off.

As if he'd spoken aloud, Harry stood up. He was shorter than James, and slighter, but the look on his face‒the thoughtful, solemn regard‒that was all Prongs in his moments of pensive contemplation that had grown so frequent after Harry's birth and the escalation of the war. Old wounds in Remus's heart tore open, and the pain of it was enough to subdue the wolf entirely.

Harry stepped forward, his hands shoved deep in his jeans pocket. "She's my best friend," he said quietly, and then turned to Hermione. "You're my best friend," he repeated. He heaved a sigh. "I don't‒er‒well, I don't understand this, but Sirius explained it some. So..." his eyes lifted and he met Remus's gaze evenly. "If you do _anything_ ‒if you hurt‒"

" _Harry_ ," Hermione interrupted, her voice breathy and emotional.

He held up a hand to shush her. "Let me finish, Hermione," he said. "Remus, I mean it."

He seemed very old then, very somber. For the first time, Remus saw him as the man he would become. A man that James would have been so very proud of. There was no trace of the betrayal and disgust that he'd seen on Harry's face the day before, and the relief he felt at that was incomparable.

Remus held out a hand. "Thank you, Harry. I won't hurt her. I swear it."

Harry inspected him carefully for a second, and then grabbed his hand and shook it twice. "All right then," he said after a moment, his expression brightening. "Just seriously, don't open whatever Fred and George gave you here. I really don't want to know."

This, Remus realized belatedly, might actually turn out okay.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thanks again for all your delightful comments. I'm hopeful that this set of reactions wasn't too disappointing‒I know a lot of you were out for fire and blood when it came to Mrs. Weasley, Tonks, and Ron, but frankly, I couldn't see it working that way with Sirius being so darn helpful. More reactions to come... and an Order meeting.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** For fun, not profit.

**Story Notes:** Sorry for the lengthy delay. Got a new job and am in the process of coordinating a move to the Boston area, so updates may be a little spotty over the next several weeks. Hope you enjoy the chapter.

  

* * *

 

 

**MOONLIGHT MADE**

**Chapter 5**

 

Hermione generally prided herself on her ability to anticipate and plan for all manner of scenarios. She possessed a logical and organized mind, a superb--if not quite eidetic, then very nearly there--memory, and she was quite resourceful. None of these traits, however, had remotely prepared her for the past thirty-six hours.

 

She’d figured it out almost immediately, of course. After she’d agreed to follow Sirius to the sub-basement below the kitchen, it had only taken moments after stepping onto the staircase for the awful howling and growling to stop and be replaced by mournful, plaintive whines. She’d spotted him then: Remus in his werewolf form, as large and instinctively terrifying as he’d been when she’d first seen him years before on the grounds at Hogwarts.

 

Her academic eye catalogued the tufted tail, the distinctive snout, and the enormous size of him. Of course, she saw the damage he’d done to himself, too. He possessed an awful fate; a horrifying fate. Once a month, every month, gentle Remus Lupin locked himself in a cage to have his body broken and monstrously reformed. Her heart ached at the sight of him.

 

Sirius had transformed into Padfoot immediately and bounded over to the cage where his friend was jailed, resting back on his massive haunches. His tongue lolled out as he settled into an old cushion that was obviously his for the night.

 

The werewolf’s gaze had locked on her. It was unsettling, to say the least, and while she imagined that for some reason the Wolfsbane must have failed, leaving Lupin a prisoner of the wolf, she simply didn’t quite believe it. There was something human in that gaze, something pleading and desperate, and it was entirely focused on her. To be the object of the giant beast’s unrelenting attention both paralyzed and thrilled her.

 

She was sure that he’d sensed her fear, because he had laid down in his cage only moments after she’d reached the uneven concrete floor. Flat on his belly, he still seemed massive. His huge paws crossed under his chin, the triangular ears affixed towards her, his amber gaze unblinking--he’d seemed like a wildly oversized and dangerous-looking sled dog seeking attention from its master. His pathetic, sorrowful whines echoed eerily in the darkness.

 

She’d known, then. She wasn’t stupid. During her precious little free time in third year, she’d gotten her hands on nearly everything unrestricted that the Hogwarts library had to offer on werewolves. As a fourteen year old girl, she’d been young enough to be considerably embarrassed about reading salacious chapters like _The Reported Mating Practices of the Common Werewolf (Beast Form)_ , but she had skimmed enough to get the general idea. Crush notwithstanding, she hadn’t been quite ready to read about Professor Lupin’s sexual habits.

 

She’d conjured herself a set of comfortable cushions like the ones the Room of Requirement had provided during fifth year and settled down cross-legged only a few feet or so away from the cage, determined to take the chance to observe a full-grown werewolf that wasn’t trying to eat her. 

 

The memory of Lupin explaining how he’d attacked himself when he hadn’t had people to bite had resurfaced in her mind. He’d been throwing himself at the bars of the cage all night--they’d heard him--and much of his shaggy, silver-grey coat was matted with blood. 

 

Because of her. 

 

She would realize later that she’d really made her decision to accept him--to be his mate--right then. If he wouldn’t defend himself, or wouldn’t protect himself--then someone had to. And Hermione would do it.

 

The hours since then had been filled with some of the most unbelievable highs and lows of her life. She’d comprehended very quickly that it wasn’t about protecting or defending him--that he wasn’t a _cause_. He was a _man_ ; her mate, who would do anything for her, and who was good and kind and noble.

 

It was a far cry from the half-formed fantasies she’d had the summer before sixth year about her eventual relationship with Ron, that’s for sure.

 

“Hermione?”

 

Harry’s quiet voice shook her out of her thoughts. She’d been staring at the fire for the better part of the last hour, half-listening to Fred and George’s antics and the very tense game of chess that Sirius had bullied Ron into playing. Tonks had stomped out moments after greeting them, though of course Hermione didn’t take offense. How could she, if the Tonks’s heart was broken?

 

Remus sat beside her, his palm resting on her thigh. He was leaning into the sofa, long legs stretched out, head tilted back against the cushion. He appeared deceptively at ease. If not for the way his hand had tensed on her thigh at Harry’s greeting, Hermione might have thought that he was dozing.

 

“Yes, Harry?” she asked quietly, aware that they had at least stopped being the overt center of attention and she was hoping to keep it that way.

 

Harry had taken a seat on an ottoman in front of her, pale face drawn and concerned. His bright green eyes appeared luminous in the dim lighting of the drawing room.

 

He’d chatted with Ron for a while, distracting him with the match the week before that the Cannons had _almost_ won. Once Sirius had gripped youngest Weasley male by the neck and steered him toward the other end of the room towards the chess set, Harry had relaxed.

 

“You’re okay about all of this?”

 

His earnest voice, his honest concern and care for her--it was times like these when Hermione remembered just how much she loved this boy.

 

She smiled at him, her heart feeling unbearably full. “I am, Harry, I promise.”

 

He looked at her carefully. “You’re sure? I mean--isn’t this--you know, a bit sudden?”

 

His face was bright red. Hermione knew hers was, too. And god--if she’d been embarrassed to contemplate Professor Lupin’s sexual activity back in third year, how much worse was it now for Harry? “It is,” she began slowly, trying to decide how best to answer him. “But I think that sometimes things are just this sudden, when you’re dealing with magic.”

 

That seemed to make sense to him. “That’s what Sirius said. That it was a magical bond.”

 

“Yes,” Hermione answered, and then couldn’t stop the grin splitting her face. “It’s--you have no idea what it feels like, Harry, it’s so wonderful.” And it did. His presence inside her was constant and reassuring; a warm glow of _him_ that she could reach out and touch at any moment.

 

“Merlin, Hermione, I don’t need the details,” Harry said, mock-grimacing, but he smiled nonetheless. A moment later, his expression sobered. “Sounds loads better than _my_ magical bond.”

 

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said quietly, sadness rushing through her. The awful reality of her friend’s struggle chilled her like the Thames in the dead of winter. “Of course, it’s not the same as that. Not at all.”

 

“S’ kind of what I thought, at first,” Harry said awkwardly. “That is was--you know, some kind of--I dunno, dark leftover from the werewolf curse? Like a trap, or something.”

 

As Harry’s wild theories went, it actually wasn’t terrible. “Nothing like that, I swear it,” Hermione said quickly. “If it were--well, you know Remus, Harry, he’d _never_ \--!”

 

“Oh, ‘Remus,’ is it?” Harry’s mercurial mood shifted again, turning teasing in the blink of an eye. “Is it going to be ‘Remmy’ next? Maybe ‘ _Wem-Wem’_?”

 

Hermione hit him in the arm. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolded, but she was trying not to laugh. “I’m not going to call him--you _know_ he’s been asking us to call him ‘Remus’, Harry!”

 

“Yeah, speaking of which,” Harry said, eyes still dancing. “I told him he better not hurt you, but I haven’t yet warned him about _you_. Does he know you’re a right lunatic most of the time?”

 

“Oh, he does,” Remus interrupted, his voice quiet and relaxed. Hermione started and turned to look at him. His eyes were closed still, his face composed, but a smile was playing about his mouth. “Thanks for the warning, mate, but I’m afraid there’s nothing for it now.”

 

Hermione laughed and her face flushed, but mostly she was simply delighted that all of the awful tension and ire that her mate had felt upon entering the drawing room earlier had faded. Fleur’s startling congratulations--and never in her life did Hermione think she would be grateful to _Fleur_ \--and the twins’ characteristic ability to lighten up a room had made the inevitable confrontation with Harry and Ron uncountably easier to bear.

 

Of course, Ron had never given up quite so easily before. She strongly doubted that she’d heard the last of it, but figured that Remus growling at him had given them a reprieve at least until she had to return to Hogwarts. At least then she wouldn’t have to worry that Remus would draw his wand on Ron.

 

She hadn’t quite known what to expect when they left his bedroom that afternoon. She’d been prepared for yelling and hexing, but not really for the barely-restrained animal aggression that Remus had displayed the moment Mrs. Weasley had walked into the room. It had been scary, she could admit now. She’d seen that dark aspect of him a few times already--but that had been sexual, not _violent_.

 

She supposed that she really had no right to be surprised--he’d warned her that he was going to be territorial, after all--but Hermione was beginning to suspect that it would be some time before she was really used to this whole thing, no matter how much she was okay with it. For now, at least, the wonder she felt at the newness of their bond was enough to keep her muddling through.

 

Magic, she realized, would never stop amazing her.

 

She nudged Remus with her elbow. “Are you--are you feeling okay, now?”

 

“Fine. Transformation’s catching up to me, is all.” His voice was soft, his words really only meant for her. His fingertips traced circles around her kneecap.

 

He looked exhausted. It was no shock; she knew he’d gotten some sleep the day before, and they’d obviously slept since then, but the adrenaline from earlier had to have worn off by now. The ridiculous breakfast he’d eaten that morning now seemed quite a long time ago.

 

Hermione frowned. “Are you hungry?”

 

“Mm. Always. I’ll be all right, love.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Next to her, Harry snorted. It startled her enough that she whipped her head back around to look at him, her braid nearly hitting her in the face. “Now I know this is real,” her friend smirked, “you’re nagging him about eating properly.”

 

“Well, Harry, you _do_ tend to overdo the treacle,” Hermione retorted instantly, easily falling into their usual banter.

 

“Not since fourth year. Learned my lesson, didn’t I?”

 

“Harry, you say that about _every_ year.”

 

“Potter family trait, I imagine,” Remus commented quietly. “The year we discovered the kitchens, James made himself ill from egg custards. He kept at it, too. I think Padfoot started a tally during third year. Put the rest of us off them for good.”

 

As it did every time he learned something new about his parents, Harry’s face lit up with a mix of joy and heartrending yearning. “Really?”

 

Remus was smiling at the memory as he sat up slowly. “Wasn’t until Sirius charmed his Quidditch robes to say ‘Custard Chaser’ on the back that he quit,” he remembered fondly.

 

“And Moony here put a Shrinking Charm on, too,” Sirius added, having apparently ended his game with Ron and walking over to join them. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning. “Prongsie could hardly get them on, remember?”

 

“Oh, I remember. He thought we switched them with Fenwick’s, tiny blighter. He didn’t even notice the back until Meadowes started calling him ‘Custard’ when she was commentating, remember?”

 

Sirius burst out laughing. “‘Course I do. ‘Custard a bit slow to the quaffle there, nearly misses the pass from McKinnon, reckon he had a go in the kitchens before the match? And, oh, Custard misses the third ring, I expect he’d have got it if one of his mates had covered it in cherries jubilee...’”

 

Harry was grinning broadly, but looked scandalized. “Youdid that during a _Quidditch_ match?”

 

“Oh, we were ahead on points for the year,” said Sirius dismissively. “And it was _Hufflepuff_ , they had Lynch on as seeker but their keeper was absolute rubbish, Moony, remember? Something Brown?”

 

“Azura,” Remus said at once. His hand rested on Hermione’s knee, and he was rubbing circles into it thoughtfully. “Didn’t you date her in fifth?”

 

“‘Date’ is putting it a bit strongly,” Sirius said lightly, and Harry laughed again. “Plus, I was going with Meadowes at the time,  that’s how I got her to do the commentary bit.”

 

“I didn’t know that! Thought she did it on her own,” Remus said, surprised.

 

“Oh, she took to it quick enough,” Sirius sniggered. “She was right pissed at Prongs then, if you recall--he’d put that second year--Carrig Troy?--on as chaser as a second year, took over her spot, remember? She was happy to sabotage a bit.”

 

“But _Quidditch_ ,” Harry interjected mournfully. “Did you lose the match?”

 

“Of course not, Harry, James was bloody brilliant,” Sirius scoffed.

 

Remus shook his head, smiling. “Not that match. It was Troy who ended up coming through, remember? He scored right before Lynch got the snitch and we won by ten. He went on to play for Ireland, you know.”

 

“Oi! D’you mean _Aiden_ Lynch and _Carrig_ Troy?” Ron suddenly exclaimed. He’d apparently been listening, and was sitting by the chessboard, his jaw slack with surprise. 

 

Quidditch, Hermione thought wryly, apparently could repair all manner of rifts.

 

“My dad played with them,” Harry said excitedly. “Troy was on his _team_!”

 

“Wicked,” Ron was awed. “Was that when your dad was captain, Harry?”

 

“James made captain in fifth year,” Remus confirmed. “Just like you, Harry.”

 

“Well, _Remus_ , if you’ve finished spending time with the _children_ , perhaps everyone could gather in the dining room?”

 

Mrs. Weasley had joined them. Her voice could have cut glass. The temperature in the drawing room plummeted.

 

Remus exhaled heavily. Hermione could sense the anger rising in him again, only for it to recede as soon as she laid her hand on his arm. “Thank you, Molly,” he said shortly, not looking in her direction.

 

The others in the room stood up. Harry reached out and clapped his arm on Remus’s shoulder. “Thanks for the story, mate,” he said quietly. 

 

Remus nodded silently, and watched as the group filed out of the room, leaving just him and Hermione alone. 

 

“You did beautifully.” She’d never been so proud and happy in her life. Harry--even Ron, at the end!--had done so much better than she hoped.

 

“It was much easier after I talked to Harry,” Remus admitted, turning toward her and fingering the paintbrush tip of her braid. “It was a pack thing, I think. He was yours, so I needed to--be sure that he wasn’t going to interfere, or...”

 

Hermione leaned forward and kissed him very chastely on the cheek. “Harry has the biggest heart of anyone I know.”

 

“Oh, I can think of one or two people who compare,” Remus said easily, curling his hand into hers and lifting her knuckles to his face. He pressed his nose to her fingers, inhaling deeply. He didn’t seem to notice he was doing it. “I have always admired you, love. Today you amazed me.”

 

“Me? I didn’t do anything!”

 

He shook his head. “You kept me from making some bad decisions. And you did it while I was behaving like a Neanderthal.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hermione teased him. “There’s quite a bit of evidence to suggest that Neanderthals had quite complex societies, including advanced language ability.”

 

“Mm. As opposed to my growling and pointing, you mean?”

 

“Oh, I prefer to think of it as purring,” Hermione said sweetly.

 

Remus wrinkled his face in honest revulsion. “Absolutely not.”

 

She giggled. “But it’s so very charming.”

 

“I may be a man first, canine second, but I am nowhere close to a feline, thank you.”

 

She laughed again and nudged his side with her elbow. “I happen to be a cat person.”

 

“I congratulate you for that, and offer a reminder that my teeth are bigger than Crookshanks’s.” 

 

“You wouldn’t!” Hermione said, her voice mock-horrified.

 

Remus tipped his head towards her jaw and snapped his teeth playfully. “Wouldn’t I?”

 

Laughing, she stood up and dragged him with her. “Let’s go. Dinner.”

 

“Delightful.”

 

“ _Delicious_ ,” Hermione countered.

 

“Doomed, rather.”

 

“ _Delectable_ , and that’s my final word on the matter,” Hermione finished primly.

 

“As you say,” said Remus, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Diabolical little mate.”

 

“Definitely dastardly.”

 

He grinned. “‘Once more unto the breach,’ do you think?”

 

“‘Follow your spirit, and upon this charge--’”

 

“‘Cry God for Harry, England, and Saint George,’” Remus finished.

 

Hermione tucked her arm in with his as he led her out of the drawing room. “You know, it’s oddly appropriate. The ‘Harry’ part, I mean.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The clamor and commotion characteristic of the Weasley family at mealtime was enough to allow Hermione and Remus to slip inside the dining room relatively unnoticed. Fred and George had were conducting a rambunctious demonstration of their shield-cloak prototype. So far, the cloak was doing a terrific job at deflecting Fred’s Jelly-Legs Jinx at Ginny, who from her position on the floor, limbs askew, was looking murderous at the fact that she wasn’t allowed to use magic during break.

 

The moment she saw Hermione, though, her face lit up with her version of the grin currently sported by her two twin brothers. Hermione’s eyes went wide.

 

Ginny scrambled to grab the edge of the table, her rubbery legs trying and failing to gain purchase on the slick wooden floors. “Hermione!” she called, her voice alarming in its giddy enthusiasm.

 

The room’s occupants turned as one to watch Hermione and Remus take seats at the far end of the table. A split second of awkward silence followed, until a massive puff of purple smoke engulfed George and Fred began cackling.

 

“Sirius wasn’t kidding about contracting Fred and George for distractions,” Hermione whispered to Remus.

 

Remus’s eyes glittered with amusement. “I imagine they’d treat Marauder-commissioned mayhem with the highest respect.”

 

The purple smoke had dissipated. George, proudly wearing some wicked looking horns--and tail?--brandished his wand at his youngest brother and jerked it in a vicious looking downward slash. A moment later, Ron’s giggles turned into wet, loud belches.

 

Hermione and Fleur winced. Ginny, still trying to claw her way towards them with nonworking legs, collapsed into giggles. “Is that what that is?” Hermione asked, still cringing.

 

Remus snorted. “George ought to have picked a different jinx. That’s just what Ron sounds like normally, five minutes after a meal.”

 

Hermione stared at him in surprise, and then let a great “ha!” of laughter.

 

From across the room, George looked on triumphantly, absolutely chuffed to have gotten such a reaction.

 

“You!” Ginny called out suddenly, now only a few body lengths away. “Hermione! Please! Undo the curse!” 

 

Hermione smiled wanly at her, and reluctantly reached for her wand. Of all the conversations that she would be forced to have today, this one with Ginny was _not_ one of those for which she was prepared. She could just imagine it now:

 

_How’s the sex? Was he an_ animal _in the sack--get it? Does he have scars_ everywhere _? How kinky did it get?_

 

It’d be bad enough at school, but right now? With Remus next to her? Frankly Hermione would rather go through five more conversations like the one she’d had last night with Remus before enduring Ginny.

 

“Your mother needs you in the kitchen, Ginny,” came Arthur’s mild voice from the entrance of the dining room. The tall, balding Weasley patriarch ducked past his boisterous brood, glancing at them with a fond smile, before swiftly reversing the jinx on his daughter and offering her a hand up.

 

“Dad! I’ve been helping Mum _all day_ \--she wouldn’t let me in to see Hermione and now--”

 

“Ginevra,” Arthur interrupted sternly. Hermione flushed hotly and Remus slid an arm around her shoulder.

 

A mutinous frown on her face, Ginny ignored her father’s outstretched hand and clambered to her feet, stalking out of the room.

 

Unperturbed, Arthur smiled congenially down at Hermione and Remus. “May I?” he inquired politely, motioning at the empty chair beside Hermione.

 

“Of course, Arthur,” said Remus.

 

Mr. Weasley took his seat at once and fiddled with the bit of fraying lace at the hem of the tablecloth. “I’d like apologize for Molly,” he said carefully.

 

Hermione blinked. Remus’s hand tightened around her shoulder. “Mr. Weasley, you’re not... you’re not upset?”

 

Arthur smiled gently. “Of course not, my dear,” he said. “That’s not to say I didn’t hope you’d eventually become a daughter of mine at some point--no offense meant, Remus--but I’ve heard as many stories about werewolves as the next fellow, too.”

 

“Most of the stories are sensationalized conjecture,” Remus said shortly, his tone cool. “I haven’t stolen Hermione from her bed and carried her off into the forest, Arthur.”

 

Mr. Weasley grimaced. “Not what I meant to imply, Remus. Sirius took some time--well, I suppose you know that he came over to the house today. I understand that he’s been aware of the situation for some time?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you... you--erm--recognized Hermione at once?”

 

A dull red flush began creeping up Remus’s neck, and Hermione couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or anger. “Mr. Weasley,” she began firmly. “We have discussed all of this already, and I’m very sorry, but it’s private. I can assure you that nothing inappropriate has _ever_ taken, and I would appreciate it if we could move on.” She was blushing madly by the end, but kept her voice steady.

 

Mr. Weasley’s brow furrowed. He blinked a few times. “Of course, my dear--I simply--I simply care for you both. Please accept my apologies for Molly,” he said, and then added somewhat ruefully, “and for Ron as well.”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Weasley, but there’s no need,” Hermione said honestly. “It’s no worse than we expected.”

 

He smiled feebly. “Paltry consolation, I think,” he commented. “I’ll be speaking to them both. In the meantime...” He paused, and the tips of his ears grew red, “...I wish you the best.”

 

Hermione couldn’t help but smile at him then. She had always considered Mr. Weasley fondly, as a kind of happy mix of eccentric uncle and kind and loving surrogate father. She now found herself immensely grateful for his temperate personality, and understood a little better how he’d managed to survive a house full of people with Prewett tempers, according to Ginny.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Weasley,” Hermione replied after a moment. “If I may ask... Regarding Ginny...” she trailed off uncomfortably, unsure how to phrase the question. Remus's thumb began swiping circles around her shoulder blade, and the repetitive motion was soothing. 

 

“Molly’s been feeling especially protective, Hermione, that’s all,” Mr. Weasley replied diplomatically. 

 

“Arthur, I appreciate your interference,” Remus said quietly. “Thank you.”

 

Mr. Weasley nodded once, and stood back up. “Time for me to break that up, I think,” he remarked, nodding his head to the ruckus at the other end of the table.

 

Long gone were Ron’s uncontrollable belches; Harry was the latest victim, having clearly taken a sweet from one of the twins (“‘Frog Flies Graveyard,’” George was announcing delightedly, “The latest in our trick dessert line!”) and now sporting an unnaturally long and sticky tongue that was quite uncontrollably shooting out to snag the Bertie Botts Beans in Charlie’s hands.

 

Mr. Weasley hadn’t walked two steps before another presence darkened the doorway.

 

Harry’s tongue shot out.

 

“Oh,” Professor Dumbledore remarked with surprise, “that was the last lemon drop I’d had in my pocket, Harry. I do hope you enjoy it.”

 

The room burst into laughter. Hermione’s stomach dropped out. What would Dumbledore think? Would he be upset? Next to her, Remus had gone quite tense. Hermione chanced a look at him. His tired, pale face had gone, if possible, more drawn and anxious in the span of a few seconds than she’d ever seen. The scars always looked more noticeable after the full moon, but now they streaked across his face in glinting silvery lines, cut only by the marks of age and stress.

 

She held his hand, and he caught her gaze with his own. The wolf was gone for the moment; the dread and apprehension she saw in him was all Remus.

 

“My, that is some excellent transfiguration, Messrs. Weasley,” Dumbledore was commenting happily. “Well done indeed.”

 

Harry’s face burning red with embarrassment as he held his hands tightly over his mouth, not even daring to speak. The twins performed an extravagant, perfectly choreographed bow for the headmaster. “Professor Dumbledore, our most esteemed headmaster,” Fred began formally.

 

“...it has come to our attention that in these dark times--”

 

“--the halls of Hogwarts--the Great Hall in particular, I should say--”

 

“Indeed, we _would_ say the Great Hall, has been rather lacking for--”

 

“Some jolly good fun,” Dumbledore cut in, smiling. “My thoughts exactly, gentlemen. I suppose if I were to put you in touch with an elf or two, you may be able to assist?”

 

The twins looked like their birthday had come early. “We might,” George recovered instantly.

 

“We absolutely can,” Fred confirmed, grinning broadly.

 

“Excellent,” said Dumbledore, clapping his hands--one blackened and necrotic--together. “Now, if I may...”

 

Harry stood a little straighter. Hermione knew he felt sure that Dumbledore had come to speak to him, and normally he’d be right, but--as she suspected--

 

The ancient wizard turned his bright blue gaze straight to Remus and Hermione. “Mr. Lupin, Miss Granger,” he greeted calmly. “Would you please join me in the kitchen?”

  

 

* * *

 

 

 

For all that they’d endured Mrs. Weasley, and Ron, and Harry, this had to be one thousand times worse. Right after asking them to speak, Dumbledore had turned and left the dining room--giving them no chance to respond. Remus had risen stiffly to his feet, holding Hermione’s hand tightly, and the deeply uncomfortable silence that had descended on the dining room hadn’t even been the worst of it.

 

The place in her mind that was _Remus_ was more unsettled than she had ever felt it. Their bond was new, of course, but up until now it had only been calmly reassuring.

 

His anxiety was palpable, inside and out. And Hermione _hated_ it.

 

It had only gotten worse the moment they’d made it down the staircase to the kitchen to find the massive work table surrounded with stony-faced Order members, plus Sirius.

 

Remus didn’t appreciate the ambush. He stepped in front of Hermione, letting go of her hand to clench his fists and square his stance. “What is this.”

 

It wasn’t a question.

 

Professor Dumbledore had seated himself at the head of the table. “There are a few matters to discuss, Remus,” he said calmly. “I don’t imagine that’s a surprise.”

 

“My private life is none of your concern,” Remus replied shortly. The rage he’d only barely managed to control earlier in the day roiled under the surface.

 

“Albus, this is not necessary,” Sirius gritted out. “This is not Order business.” He had moved to stand beside Remus, glaring at the assembled group: Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Professor McGonagall, Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Snape.

 

Professor Snape was standing behind Dumbledore’s shoulder. His everyday sharp-faced scowl had been replaced by a look of utter revulsion. A wave of foreboding swept Hermione as he opened his mouth to speak.

 

“A student, Lupin? And here I thought your interest in schoolgirls had ended once your own schooling did. I see I was mistaken.”

 

Whatever tenuous hold Remus had on his temper was shattered. Hermione had never before been simultaneously more humiliated and more afraid in her life as she shot forward to grab her lover’s arm, trying to stop him from reaching Snape. He had quite ignored his wand, she realized dimly--he was actually going after him _bare-handed_.

 

“Remus, _please_ ,” she gasped out, just as Sirius body-checked him hard, and their combined efforts managed to still him.

 

It didn’t stop Remus from speaking. “Fancy another encounter with me during a full moon, _Snivellus_?” he spat out. Incandescent fury burned bright in his eyes and in the glint of his bared teeth. His voice was unrecognizable in its vitriol, and their bond pulsed madly, hotly in her mind. Hermione wanted to rip and tear. She wanted them all _dead_.

 

Across the room, Snape paled. His glittering black eyes went wide for only a split second before his lip curled. “The last time went so well for you. When you nearly _ate_ your _mate_ but for me,” he snarled out mockingly.

 

“Severus!” Dumbledore intervened sharply. No trace of the dotty, amiable persona remained. “This is meant to be a civil conversation.”

 

“Fucking idiot,” Sirius barked, voice harsh with ire and from the effort of restraining his friend. “Antagonizing a werewolf _with his mate present_ , Snape? And Evans always said you were _smart_.”

 

It happened so quickly that Hermione hardly had time to comprehend it. Snape drew his wand instantly, face contorted grotesquely with rage, robes billowing out, and Remus had broken free of Sirius’s grip to wrap his body protectively around Hermione, drawing his own wand in the process, and a terrible, bloodthirsty grin had drawn its way across Sirius’s face, and then--

 

Everyone froze.

 

“That is quite enough,” said Dumbledore coolly, replacing his wand in his robes. “Compose yourselves, gentlemen.”

 

Hermione’s heart was beating furiously in her chest. Remus’s immobilized body held her tightly in an awkward half-crouch. “Sir,” she managed, somewhat short of breath, “Could you...?”

 

Dumbledore blinked. “Of course. My apologies, Miss Granger,” he replied easily, sliding into his usual affable tones as though the past few minutes hadn’t even taken place. A moment later, Remus’s hold loosened and she was able to extricate herself and stand up. She knew her face was burning.

 

She kept her hand on Remus’s forearm and took a deep breath. “Professor Dumbledore, was there something you needed to say to the two of us?” Her voice was aloof and unhappy, but she didn’t try to inject false warmth into it. This _was_ uncalled for and unwise; Sirius had been right. Who _corners_ a werewolf--or, she thought rather acidly, a werewolf’s _mate_?

 

Professor McGonagall covered her mouth with her hand. Shacklebolt outright smiled. Hermione vaguely realized that their amusement was at her expense. Her nervousness and Remus’s lingering anger must have grown her courage somehow, and they thought it was funny.

 

It wasn’t. She was angry and humiliated and _hurt_ on behalf of herself and Remus. She was a legal adult, as was he, and they owed no explanation or excuse to anyone.

 

“Yes, Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore after a moment. “I can see plainly that you and Mr. Lupin have in fact become mates. I offer my congratulations.”

 

Hermione had only ever personally spoken to Dumbledore a handful of times. But she had never heard him sound like this before. The words fit, certainly, but the tone did not; he was displeased and thoughtful, and although he seemed to be trying to hide that fact, he wasn’t. She wasn’t sure how she knew it, but she did.

 

“Yes,” she finally replied. “I made that decision yesterday. But surely that is not the reason for this meeting? The personal decisions of two consenting adults, that is?”

 

The immobilizing spell must have been starting to wear off, because she could have sworn that she saw a very slow roll of the eyes from Professor Snape. She ignored it.

 

“Indeed not, Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore calmly. “But you must understand that there are ramifications of your decision which do not affect only yourselves.”

 

“Well, of course,” Hermione exclaimed, her color rising. “ _Every_ decision that _anyone_ makes has ramifications!”

 

“Miss _Granger_ ,” Professor McGonagall said sharply. “We recognize that this is personal, but--”

 

Perhaps it was the burn of emotion in her mind that belonged to Remus, or her own frustration, or even the simple fact that her two defenders--Remus and Sirius--were unable to speak for themselves, but Hermione had had it.

 

“Yes. This is _personal_. And I’m very sorry if my romantic life has created a problem for anyone, but it’s a fait accompli. It’s done. It’s no one’s business but mine and Remus’s and frankly it should be _celebrated_. This is a _good_ thing--a _happy_ thing in a very dark time. And I’ve stood here--” Hermione was suddenly horrified to realize that there were tears welling up in her eyes--“ _all_ day and been asked to justify myself, over and over. It doesn’t work that way. I don’t have to justify anything.”

 

She was breathing hard when she was finished. And then she realized what she had done, and her stomach plummeted.

 

Oh god. What _had_ she done?

 

She blinked a few times, and then realized in shell-shocked kind of daze, that Professor McGonagall actually looked rather proud. Proud!

 

“Miss Granger, I did not mean to upset you,” said Dumbledore gently--and this was the Dumbledore she’d seen before, the one who was kind, and offered candy, and gave suggestions to the Weasley twins. “I see now that that is the case. Please accept my apology.”

 

Hermione felt herself nodding silently. “Accepted,” she managed to get out hoarsely. At least she hadn’t actually begun to cry.

 

As if Snape needed any further ammunition that she was a child. Or Mrs. Weasley, for that matter, she thought uncharitably.

 

“We will discuss any changes that need to be made to our strategy with the werewolves at a later date,” Dumbledore proclaimed. “Until then, my dear, perhaps we shall adjourn to dinner?” His wand appeared in his hand and all three men had full control of their bodies once more. 

 

Hermione felt Remus’s hand wrap around her waist. “I’m not hungry,” she said, very quietly. “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley, for your trouble. But I think I’d much rather lay down.”

 

Across the room, Mrs. Weasley nodded at her, her own eyes hooded in thought, and in the next moment, Remus apparated them away with a faint little pop.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Their room was quiet but for her short, harsh breathing. The adrenaline was still running through her veins, and she couldn’t--god, she had _yelled_ at Professor Dumbledore! She was a _prefect_ , and she had--

 

Remus swept his fingers down her cheek. They came away wet, and Hermione realized that she was crying.

 

She angrily wiped her sleeve across her face, incensed at her own weakness, and Remus caught her hands in his. She didn’t look at him. She knew that she would see his regret, and guilt, and she didn’t want to see that.

 

He _shouldn’t_ regret, or feel guilt, or any of it. What she said had been _true_. And since Sirius and Remus both were unable to speak, she’d had to step up. She’d had to defend Remus, because his only defender had been silenced.

 

Well, not any more. He had two, now, two members of his pack that would no longer allow anyone to disparage him--himself included. She wouldn’t stand for it. He was _hers_.

 

Hermione pushed her face forward and buried her nose in the crease of Remus’s chest and bicep. He stumbled back slightly but recovered quickly, letting go of her hands to wrap around her shoulders instead, and if not for his solid presence she was sure that she would be shaking, or crying, or both. Instead, she just concentrated on breathing.

 

In. Out. In. Out.

 

“I meant it,” she told him forcefully, the words muffled into his shoulder. 

 

“I know you did,” he said quietly.

 

“I didn’t mean--I didn’t mean to lose it like that,” she continued unnecessarily.

 

She felt, rather than heard, his silent laughter. “Hermione,” he said tenderly, taking hold of her shoulders and stepping back so that he could look into her eyes, "I nearly attacked Snape. You simply put them in their place."

 

She smiled weakly. "My finest moment: screaming at Albus Dumbledore, two of my professors, my best friend's parents, a senior auror..."

 

"Oh, I don't know. It was actually a bit sexy," he said very seriously.

 

She looked up at him dubiously and studied his overly-solemn face. He held it for another second before he cracked a smile.

 

She laughed then and his smile turned more genuine. “There you go,” he said gently, tilting her chin up with a crooked index finger. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “You were brilliant, though, Hermione.” His voice was quiet. “Bit mad, but brilliant.”

 

She laughed again, and felt the awful swell of emotion in her chest begin to recede. “I felt childish, or... I don’t know, petulant?”

 

He shook his head. “No one in our position would normally be asked to defend ourselves from a committee of schoolteachers, aurors, and the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. A little fire in you seems warranted.”

 

Hermione fingered the slightly frayed collar of his jumper. “He’s not Chief Warlock anymore,” she mumbled absently. “Got sacked last year, remember?”

 

“Hermione, you said what I wouldn’t have had the courage to say, not to Dumbledore.”

 

Hermione looked up, surprised. Remus regarded her gravely. “I’ve never--I’ve never been able to suffer the disapproval of others well, I’m afraid.” He gave her a self-deprecating little half-smile. “Especially those whom I hold in high respect. For someone like Dumbledore, who--” he broke off, almost choked--“well, I owe him quite a lot. More than can be repaid." 

 

“Oh,” Hermione breathed. “Should I--should I not have--?”

 

“No! I mean, Hermione, you _did_ say what I wish I would have done,” Remus explained quickly. “That’s what--that’s what I’m trying to say. That you’re tremendously brave, and that I’m very thankful to have you. You’re more than I deserve.”

 

Hermione was sure that if she tried to speak, her throat would simply fail to work. So she leaned forward again and pressed her face into his chest, and held him.

 

* * *

 

**Author’s Note:** This was a really interesting chapter for me to write. Definitely curious about you thoughts and I hope you enjoyed it as much as the others--thanks to all for your very kind reviews!

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** For fun, not profit.

 **Story Notes:** This chapter is rated M.

* * *

**MOONLIGHT MADE**

**Chapter 6**

Quietly, Remus let himself into his bedroom, keeping the door open long enough to allow the trays of food and drink to follow him in. Flicking his wand somewhat absently, the dinner he'd put together from tonight's leftovers soared around the room in aimless circles and figure eights before finally settling on the sideboard beside his bookshelf. The candles were lit, and the bathroom was bright. Hermione was there.

He holstered his wand and walked over, feeling the weight of the past few days very heavy on his shoulders. He was  _tired_. He'd been tired the moment the Weasleys had entered the house that afternoon, and he was tired after trying to control his wolf all day, and he was tired after spending the past hour on his knees in the kitchen hearth talking to Dumbledore.

Hermione was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, leaning against the ornate commode emblazoned with the Black family crest‒another of those pieces that had been Permanently Stuck to the floor. She looked drawn and thoughtful, her teeth worrying her bottom lip and her eyes staring, unblinking, at her reflection.

The surge of warmth and possession in his chest was by now familiar, but it lacked the awful ache to which he'd grown accustomed; the terrible longing for wanting what he couldn't have and the self‒recrimination for wanting it at all.

He felt at peace.

She was his now, and she'd claimed him, too‒claimed him in front of everyone, her mind and heart and body lit up in righteous indignation on his behalf. He didn't have to yearn for her anymore, and hate himself for it.

She noticed his arrival and smiled weakly up at him. Anyone might have called her brown eyes unremarkable, but when they turned on him, and he saw that kindness and care and happiness there‒they were the most beautiful eyes in the world, and those eyes were for  _him_.

It was times like these, Remus mused, that he was very glad Padfoot couldn't read his mind to call him out for being the most ridiculous sap to ever live, besides Prongs of course.

"What are you thinking?"

She turned her gaze back to her reflection, and heaved a sigh. "It's just... I feel so different, now. The person I was just a few days ago seems like a dream. I was looking in the mirror and wondering how it could be that I could look the same but feel so changed on the inside." She refocused on him. "Stupid, I know."

Remus leaned against the door jamb. "Not stupid. A lot has happened. And I know a thing or two about feeling the like the outside and inside doesn't match."

She smiled at him. "Yes, I guess you do."

"Speaking of which," Remus said slowly. "If today's any judge, I think that my wolf‒well, I think that I'll become much more relaxed over time, excepting the full moon, naturally. So you'll only have to suffer this version of me for a little longer." He tried to make it seem joking rather than bitter; from the sudden furrow of her brow, though, he didn't think that he had succeeded.

"I wouldn't call spending time with you 'suffering,' regardless of your wolfy attitude or otherwise," Hermione said flatly. "We only have‒Remus, today is Wednesday, and I go back next Monday‒and I somehow doubt that the headmaster will allow me to visit you before the end of term."

His heart felt like lead in his chest. "He won't. I asked him tonight."

"He's still here?"

Remus shook his head. "Spoke with him over Floo."

Her face fell. "I'm sorry, I would have come with‒"

"I wouldn't have minded, Hermione, but it was Order business, mostly," Remus assured her gently. "Honestly, we‒you and me‒didn't really come up. I think he's reconsidering the wisdom of earning your censure."

To his relief, amusement at Remus's teasing flitted across her face. "A lesson Harry and Ron ought to have learned long ago," she said airily, playing along.

"Mm. Well, they  _are_  Gryffindors," Remus joked. "You and I, we're rare breeds for our House, what with all the using of our brains."

She giggled. Remus's heart soared. "The Sorting Hat considered all four Houses for me, you know," she confided quietly. "I  _chose_ Gryffindor."

"Not me," Remus said quietly. "Not really. I'd met Sirius on the train, and I knew his last name of course. He was dreading the Sorting, afraid to get Slytherin, but he was so funny and magnetic and  _kind_. I wanted so badly to have a friend like him."

Hermione was staring at him, rapt.

"He was the third Sorted," Remus continued. "The Hat took maybe thirty seconds to decide. You should have seen it‒" Remus was smiling now‒"the Great Hall went silent and then all of Slytherin started booing and hissing. Sirius ignored it all, just strolled over to the Gryffindor table, hands in his robe pockets, and told a couple of fifth years to budge over. I hoped to be as brave as him, and the Hat listened to me."

"You  _were_ , though," Hermione said. "Sirius was incredibly brave, of course, but Remus... you were only eleven, going to school with this huge secret..." she cleared her throat. "I have  _always_ admired your courage."

"The feeling is mutual," Remus said after a moment, because he wasn't sure what else to say. Courageous? Him? He who had allowed James and Sirius to run roughshod over Slytherins and kids in younger years? He who had looked away and kept silent at best, participated at worst, all for fear of losing the acceptance of the first friends he'd ever known? He who had endangered schoolchildren? He who couldn't bear to risk Dumbledore's disapproval to the extent that he'd withheld information on an escaped murderer? He who couldn't bear to separate himself from her, and so condemned a teenage girl to the lifelong ostracism of being a werewolf's mate?

Silence in the face of injustice is the same as supporting it. He'd read that somewhere. Silence in the face of injustice‒had Hermione ever so much as contemplated keeping silent for fear of retribution?

The very notion was ridiculous. What had he done to deserve her? The answer was easy; he had done nothing, of course. Somehow fate had smiled on him‒for perhaps the second time in his life‒and had chosen to grant his most deeply‒buried dream at the expense of another's.

He reached out to wind his finger around one of the curls that had escaped her plait. "I wish you didn't have to go back to Hogwarts."

She huffed a choked little laugh. "Believe it or not, me too," she admitted. "Don't tell anyone."

Remus grinned at her, and mimed buttoning his lips. "Tell anyone what?"

She caught his hand in hers and drew his knuckles to her lips, pressing a gentle kiss there. "I meant what I said earlier, you know," she told him. "I really do feel lucky."

A few heartbeats where Remus didn't trust himself to speak. "As it happens, you are in luck," he managed finally. "Brought some food up with me, if you're hungry?"

"Oh, yes, please," she said gratefully, and the air of thoughtful not‒quite‒melancholy lifted from her body as she dropped their clasped hands to her hips.

* * *

Later, they lay in bed. They were both tired, but Remus had undressed her very gently and pulled her into their bed and simply kissed her. He could have done more‒he wanted to do more‒but her bone‒deep exhaustion was obvious in the droop of her eyelids and the languid spread of her limbs under the sheets.

She traced his scars with small, featherlike touches of her fingers. She studied each one with her entire concentration, her brow furrowed over tired, blinking eyes, her lower lip red and swollen from the abuse of her teeth. Her touch was by turns delicate and clinical; he suspected she was calculating the depth and width of each old injury and wondering if it was inflicted by tooth or claw.

"Where were you bitten?"

Her voice was so soft, so tentative, that it offset the sudden clench of dread and fear and long‒held shame that Remus always felt at even the most oblique reference to the moment his curse began.

He swallowed tightly and reached forward with his free hand, taking hold of her fingers and dragging them to the stretched, malformed ring of scar tissue that began at his armpit and curled around his pectoral, over his clavicle, and down his scapula. It wouldn't have been that remarkable if not for the odd, silvery tint of the keloids, but it was  _the_  bite,  _the_ scar that had begun it all: the cursed wound itself.

"So big," Hermione breathed.

"I was quite young, and he quite big," Remus said quietly.

"How old were you?"

"Four."

She bit down hard on her lip. "Do you... remember much of it?"

Remus shut his eyes. The explosion of the wooden slatted fence of their back garden, shards of wood bursting into the dusky night air as the massive, gunmetal grey wolf broke his way through it. It had only taken a single leap for the monstrous creature to reach him from there. His own shocked cry had paired with the shrill, horrified scream of his mother as the huge, slavering jaw bit down into his shoulder and its teeth dug deep.

He remembered the burst of red sparks from his father's wand, but no other magic; he realized as an adult that his father had been too afraid to cast in case he might hit his own son instead of the beast. At the time, he had simply wondered why his daddy wasn't saving him.

The wolf had flung him onto the ground several feet away and then bounded after him, picking up him up in those terrible jaws and shaking him back and forth as if he'd been a rag doll. He didn't remember much past that.

"I do," Remus replied finally. "I don't recall a great deal of the recovery, though, except for the following full moon. But the attack itself is one of my first memories."

She was looking at him as if her heart had broken. "I didn't mean to pry."

"You could never," Remus reassured her. And he realized that it was true; he  _wanted_ to share these forbidden things with her, these close‒held memories that he'd never even shared with his friends. Peter had asked him too, he remembered now.

" _What was it like to get bitten?" Peter's gaze held the sheen of excited, childlike enthusiasm. "Do it hurt terribly?"_

" _Morgana's tight fucking cunt, Peter," Sirius had snapped. "Of course it bloody hurt. Wanker."_

" _What? I was only asking," Peter had whined. "Remus doesn't mind!"_

"I  _mind," James had retorted. "Some things just aren't done, Peter."_

Hermione, of course, was different. He could  _feel_ the sorrow and grief she felt at the thought of him in pain, at the prospect of his curse. It wasn't pity, or even sympathy, exactly‒he found both abhorrent‒but it was  _her_. She belonged to him, and he to her. How could he not share it all with her?

"I didn't understand at first," Remus said suddenly. "My parents built a cage for me in our cellar. I didn't know what it meant, really, except that they made me go in every so often and locked the door. And then it  _hurt_ so badly. I used to beg them not to. I'd cry and scream, promising to be good, if only they wouldn't lock me in. I thought the cage did it, you see, not myself."

Hermione was absolutely silent. All traces of fatigue had left her.

"My mother used to stay with me," Remus continued on doggedly. "Until she realized that it made it worse. Live prey so close, but just out of reach?" He let out a heavy sigh. "I didn't understand until a year or two later. By then they'd put all manner of silencing charms on so that I couldn't hear them, and they couldn't hear me."

Hermione still didn't speak. Instead she scooted closer to him, pressing her body against his and pushing her face against his chest. He could feel wetness there. He drew his arm around her and held her closely, listening to the sound of her breaths in her chest and the beat of her heart. She fit perfectly against him.

He felt the press of her lips against the center of him, the place where sternum ended and abdomen began. It would have been a chaste kiss but for how long her lips lingered; the extra second of her mouth on his body was enough to send prickles of heat through him.

He trailed a hand over the pile of soft, untamable hair that she had left unbound for the evening. She kissed him again, in a different spot, and then looked up at him, eyes open and guileless, and the shy desire and contentment he saw there sent a spike of longing straight to his groin.

He tilted his head down and pulled her close to him; close enough that he could reach her lips with his. They kissed, and it still felt new despite the fact that it seemed like they had spent most of the past day and night like this.

It was a sweet, languid kiss; tired tongues slipping against one another, hot breath puffing against flushed and swollen skin. Her teeth nipped him hard in the corner of his mouth and an uncontrollable shudder rippled through him.

He thrust his hardened cock against the hollow of her hip quite involuntarily, and she bit him again.

Remus gasped against her mouth and her lips spread into a smile, teeth still clamped on his bottom lip. She let him go. "Do you like that?"

"Hate it," Remus responded breathlessly.

She giggled. "Sorry."

"You could make it up to me," Remus replied, kissing her cheek and jaw and neck, "by doing it again and again."

She laughed outright then. "What else do you like?"

The question‒and the fact that  _she_ was asking it‒made him get impossibly, unbelievably hard. Remus tongued the healing bite on her shoulder for a second and then reached for her hand, which she had pressed against his chest.

Her hand was small and slender in his; a delicate little thing. He pulled it down under the sheet and coverlet to press against his rigid length and the instant pleasure of her touch on him even through the cotton of his briefs was enough to make all of the air depart from his lungs.

It was dark in the room, but Remus could still see her as her face pinkened and her mouth fell open with a mix of surprise and embarrassment. He wanted her. They'd been together that afternoon‒what, ten hours ago?‒and he wanted her just as desperately as he had then, and he would die a happy man if he could want her like this forever, and have her want him back.

Unexpectedly, she tucked her hand inside his briefs and curled her fingers around him.

His eyes slammed shut. His entire focus shifted to his cock and her hand, her hot little hand that gripped him so tightly, and he grunted and thrust into her hand like a schoolboy. She was going to be the death of him.

"Is it‒too hard?" she sounded unsure and awkward, and he choked out a laugh even as he  _loved_ the question, and the wolf was howling in rapturous delight that she had never touched a man like this before, and she would  _only_  ever touch him this way, and he would cry his possession of her to the moon and stars and sky forever.

"Adequately hard, I should think," he teased her, and it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He closed his hand around her fingers and dragged both their hands up, down, in the rhythm he preferred, using his other hand to push his briefs down further for better access. "Like this," he explained unnecessarily

She caught on quickly, and pushed his own hand away so she could begin pumping him in earnest, and even though her rhythm faltered a bit because of the awkward angle, it felt glorious.

"Does it feel‒am I doing it right?"

"Yes," he gritted out, the sound of her voice sending pulses of heat through him in time with her strokes. "Keep talking."

"What should I‒what do you want me to say?"

She was so uncertain, and faintly embarrassed, even as he could hear the strain of excitement in her breathless voice. It was the sexiest thing he'd ever heard.

"Anything," he managed to reply, the familiar heat and pleasure beginning to build in him and he was trying to keep still but couldn't, using what remained of his restraint to keep him here, beside her, rather than pushing her up against the headboard and getting inside her as fast as humanly possible.

"Okay, Remus," she said, and there was no mistaking it now, she was fired up, and he knew she'd said his name on purpose, and he liked it. And then‒she stopped.

The shock of it tore a surprised, pleading whimper from his throat even as he registered her throwing their covers back. He leaned his hips toward her almost blindly and inhaled sharply as she took hold of him again. "God," he mumbled at her. "God, love‒feels good. Don't‒don't stop."

"Sorry," she replied a little breathlessly. "I wanted to see."

Her matter‒of‒fact tone sent a frisson of pleasure through him so intense that he bucked hard into her hand and swore loudly. He cracked an eye at her then, saw her watching him avidly, lips parted, eyes bright with something undefinable‒something like amazement and pride and lust. Her breasts quivered with the motion of her arm.

"Fuck," he gasped out, glancing down to watch her hand moving on him, her thumb capturing his pre‒come and using it to lubricate him. Her fingers squeezed him hard at the apex of each upstroke and the pad of her thumb swept across the exposed glans, sending him shuddering and clenching his hands in the sheet and biting back moans.

It felt so good. He never thought he'd be here. He never thought she'd touch him like this.

"I like watching you," she confided in a whisper.

"Fuck," he heard himself saying as his bollocks drew up and got tight and his muscles tensed and that old pressure and ache coiled and swirled inside.

"I like that you're losing it because of me," she continued, and it was quite tame for dirty talk, but it didn't matter. "It makes me‒Remus, I'm  _wet_ watching you."

"Oh,  _fuck_ ‒"

He was panting now, and groaning intelligible swearwords, and he reached down, covered her hand with his and tightened their grip, fucking her fist hard and then the wave of hot, blinding pleasure was exploding in his groin and he was coming and coming, ejaculate splattering over himself and her and he couldn't breathe.

He sank back into the pillows, utterly spent.

As he came down, Remus was dimly aware that she was touching him still, tracing her fingertips up his arm to his shoulder to the ridges of scar tissue that were Greyback's legacy. Had it really only been moments before that he was telling her about that scar?

He mustered just enough energy to turn his head towards her, needing to see her, needing to make sure she was okay and real and here with him, and‒

She was grinning. Grinning that smug, self‒satisfied little grin that made it clear exactly how delighted she was that she'd gotten him off.

The unexpectedness of it made him laugh, and god, it was funny! Of course she'd be good at wanking him. Of  _course_. She was amazing at everything she tried, and beautiful in her determination and resolve to excel. What couldn't she do?

The image of her mouth around him, lips stretched tight, clouds of that ridiculous hair tickling his thighs‒

He blinked to see her still watching him, still smiling. "Did you hate that too?"

God, but he loved her.

"Loathed it," he said, and his voice was so hoarse that he might as well have been screaming for the past hour. Come to think of it, he might have done. Who knew? He didn't.

"Despised it?" she continued, the hitch in her voice telling him she was able to giggle.

"Abhorred it," he confirmed, and flicked his fingers for a wandless, mild  _Scourgify_ so that they could both be clean. Part of him‒the wolf, mainly‒wanted to leave it on her, wanted to see his come dried on her skin, tangible evidence that she was  _his_ ‒but he repressed the instinct and leaned forward to kiss her instead.

He missed, because she pulled back. "That was  _wandless_ ," she said in a shocked tone, sounding by halves impressed and dismayed.

"Yes," Remus answered, kissing her jaw instead.

Her brow furrowed. "But Hogwarts curriculum doesn't  _cover_ wandless magic, only  _wordless_ ‒"

"Hermione," he interrupted her, and this  _was_ funny. "Trust me. Every boy in Hogwarts third year and above knows how to do that.  _Trust_  me."

She went brilliantly red, and he loved it, loved it because she'd just been masturbating him and the fact that she was still bashful after that was adorable.

"Oh," she responded very primly, and Remus laughed again, reaching over to her and sliding his hand down the smooth curve of her hip.

"May I?"

She frowned at him? "May you what?"

He didn't answer, choosing to trail his fingers around the ridge of her pelvis down to her mons.

"Oh.  _Oh_!"

He grinned.

* * *

"Well? What did you feel?" Sirius's voice cut through the haze, as eager and excited as Hermione has ever heard him.

She blinked a few times, and reached out to stretch, her long, curved claws glinting in the sunlight‒

Hermione screwed up her eyes, and then opened them again. Hands. She had  _hands_ , not claws.

"Claws," she said stupidly, still trying to clear the fuzz of the magical meditation from her mind. "I had claws."

"Claws!" Sirius crowed delightedly. "What else?"

"I could‒" Hermione paused to think. "Everything looked normal, I think‒my vision I mean," she corrected. "It looked about the same as things do now," she told him.

Sirius frowned. "Damn. I was hoping..."

"I know," Hermione answered. They'd  _both_ been hoping that she would be a dog like him, or a canine at least‒a clue for which would have been the odd blues, grays, and yellows of canine vision. Hermione wondered absently what her mother Dr. Granger would say if she knew that Hermione was making wishes about her Animagus form based on what would best for her lover.

She wrinkled her nose. Better not to ask these questions.

"So your vision seemed normal," Sirius said thoughtfully. "And you had claws? What kind?"

"They were..." Hermione cast her mind back to the odd vision, to the strange sensation of her nonhuman hands. "Large," she decided on finally. "They were black, and at least a few inches long. Curved."

Sirius looked strangely impressed. "Huh."

The flood of sense memory hit her suddenly. Hermione inhaled deeply, recalling the deluge of information her other self‒her Animagus self, deep inside the magical meditation‒had neatly sorted out with each inhalation. "I know I said this before, but the sense of smell..." Hermione shook her head. "It's not overwhelming until I remember it, but it's  _amazing_."

"This is good stuff," Sirius told her happily. "It's good work."

This wasn't a classroom, nor an exam, but Hermione flushed at the praise nonetheless. She couldn't help it. "Thanks." It didn't hurt that this was her official unofficial Animagus training; that this was the task she  _had_ to complete if she wanted to really help Remus during the full moons. This wasn't a class, she wouldn't get a N.E.W.T., but Hermione couldn't remember taking something so seriously since the D.A. the previous year.

"Not surprised at all of course," Sirius said with a grin, stretching himself and offering her a hand up from the patch of grass that had managed to survive in the back garden of Grimmauld Place. "You're a quick study."

"Not that quick," Hermione said. "You managed it when you were a fifth year."

"Ah yes, and we too were key players in the fight against Voldemort as schoolchildren," said Sirius, affecting an airy, nostalgic tone. "Those  _were_  the days‒Permanent Sticking cauldrons to the Slytherins' shoe soles, charming staircase number one hundred and two to detach from the railing and float to the sixth floor, keeping our friends alive in the Tri‒Wizard Tournament... which, by the way," he added with a glance to her, "was then known as the Septa‒Wizard Tournament, since Moony, Prongs, Wormtail and I were all competitors..."

Hermione couldn't hold back a snort of laughter. "Point made, okay."

"Did you hear that bit about the staircase? That was a good bit."

Hermione frowned. "You actually  _did_ that? But what if someone got  _hurt_? And how did you do it?  _Hogwarts, A History_ says that structural changes can only‒"

"‒can only be made by Headmaster's request, unless expressly contracted for by a joint committee of Headmaster and School Governors, and so on and so forth," Sirius quoted mischievously.

Hermione wasn't sure whether to be thrilled that he'd quoted her favorite book, or aghast at the sheer  _danger_  of the prank. "But a  _staircase_ ‒"

"Oh, are you telling her the story about the hundred‒and‒second staircase?"

Remus had walked in. He wore worn and faded jeans and an ancient, washed out Rolling Stones tee shirt filled with holes at the seams. Dust and grime had found its way onto his forearms and neck and in his hair. The sight of him sent warmth spiralling through Hermione's chest.

"Why, Moony, you're looking very dapper," Sirius said, grinning, twirling his wand in his hand. A certain glint in his eye didn't bode well for Remus's wardrobe.

"Not the shirt," warned Remus sternly, ambling over to Hermione and holding out a hand to help her up. She took it and he pulled her to her feet, brushing his thumb over the ridges of her knuckles in the kind of casual intimacy that Hermione was still unused to.

"Never the shirt, Moony, never the shirt. I might have to steal that shirt, since I reckon mine's still in evidence lockup at the Ministry."

Remus's smile dimmed a bit and Hermione went to turn into a hug, but wrinkling her nose at the dirt and sweat that covered him at the last minute. "What were you doing?"

"Thank you, love," Remus teased her. "You too look lovely." He gripped her forearm and pulled her close, nuzzling into her neck.

She squeaked a little, pushing at him and laughing as he made an honest attempt to transfer what looked like a great deal of cobwebs and paint chips on to her. She protested wordlessly, trying to twist out of his grasp.

"Careful, she's got claws," Sirius said, grinning at them both and clambering to his own feet.

Remus paused in his assault of her, his brow furrowed. "Claws?"

Hermione smiled widely. "Yes."

"You're being careful?" This was addressed to Sirius; the defensive tone in his voice meant that Remus was trying very hard to suppress his wolf.

"Moony," Sirius said, rolling his eyes. "Have you met me?"

Remus glared at him. "Sirius."

"Very careful. So far she's got eyes, a nose, and claws. Not a canine, more than likely."

Hermione looked up at her mate, chewing on her lip a bit. "You're not disappointed, are you?"

"Depends," Remus said lightly, snagging the hand she'd managed to wrench away from him and running the tips of his fingers against the underside of her nails, which were at this moment quite bitten down and not at all clawlike. "Are you a cat?"

"If I am, it's a big cat."

"Padfoot'll like that. You might give him a bit of a challenge."

"Padfoot better watch out," Hermione teased. "I'm very crafty."

"So we've heard," said Sirius, his grin so wide and bright that Hermione thought for the first time that she was seeing him as he must have been as a young man. "Something about Mary Edgecombe?"

"Marietta," Hermione corrected automatically. "If she would just  _apologize_ , the spots would fade, but..."

"Vigilante justice," Sirius said sagely. "Very wise." In the sunlight, Sirius's hair pulled back and his face unshadowed, the gauntness of his face was subdued and softened. He didn't look quite so haunted, his eyes not so hollow, and Hermione felt such a rush of happiness that she was a part of it that she couldn't help but smile back at him.

"'Sneak' emblazoned in spots on the girl's forehead," continued Sirius fondly, heaving a put‒upon sigh that seemed half jealous and half lovestruck. "Dunno, Remus, she's becoming an Animagus and she's pulled off a fair bit of mischief in her time. Sounds like another Marauder to me."

"No thank you," Hermione replied instantly. "I am a  _prefect_. And Fred and George would kill me."

Next to her, Remus laughed softly. "To the first: so was I. To the second: possibly true. If they could get past your claws." He nudged her.

" _Definitely_ true," Sirius agreed, absently flicking his wand at a patch of dirt and shooting a non‒verbal  _Aguamenti_ at it. "So what were you doing, Moony? You look like a house‒elf."

"Thank you," Remus replied mildly. "I was in the library. I found a secret room."

Hermione stared at him. "Really?"

He nodded. "Behind the two bookcases next to the disturbing tapestry."

"Describes most of the library," Sirius muttered, ending his  _Aguamenti_ , transforming into Padfoot, and jumping into the mass of mud that he'd created.

Hermione didn't allow the frolicking black grim to distract her. "What did you find?"

Remus shrugged. "So far, a lot of dust and a couple of warded trunks. None of them seem to be keyed to the Blacks, so we may not need Sirius to crack them."

"Somehow I think Sirius isn't interested in cracking them right now," Hermione commented with a smile. The big, bearlike dog yipped and barked a few times in what she could only assume was agreement.

Remus snorted at his friend's antics. "Let's go."

Hermione followed him back into the house and down into the kitchen. It was an unseasonably warm day; at least 24 degrees and climbing. The basement kitchen was cool and dark and it wasn't until Remus headed straight to the kettle and tapped it once with his wand did Hermione realize exactly how exhausted she was and how much she needed a cuppa.

It had been two days since their confrontation with the Order. Harry had returned to Grimmauld Place yesterday, but had decided to visit the Burrow during Hermione's Animagus lessons with his godfather. He'd been extremely wounded that he hadn't been invited to participate in the first place. In return, Hermione had happily recommended several of the necessary texts‒all found in Sirius's old school trunk, naturally‒and Sirius had absolutely forbidden him from joining the very dangerous magical meditation sessions that Hermione was working her way through until he'd read them all.

It was tremendously draining. The conceptualization and control involved was extraordinarily difficult. The danger of becoming an Animagus was the fact that the magic was fundamentally different from the accepted conventions of traditional transfiguration. The entire purpose of transfiguration was to effect an authentic and permanent change to the subject; yet the Animagus transformation of human into animal sought only to transform the body, while retaining the mind. Add to that the fact that the transformation was meant to be wandless and reversible was only a small obstacle in in the face of that challenge.

There was at least one benefit, though. The difficulty in separating herself from her inner animal even in the enchanted meditation was beginning to give Hermione an unprecedented understanding of Remus's condition. The Animagus process was scary enough while the practitioner was performing it willingly. Even then, she had experienced moments of fear and panic during the meditative state when she had temporarily lost herself.

And Remus lost himself‒and his body‒once a month, every month, and had done since he was four.

He'd been a werewolf for thirty‒four years. Doubly long as she'd even been  _alive_.

408 full moons.

Remus set a cup of tea in front of her, steaming and fragrant. Hermione realized that she'd sat down at the table and had been staring off into the distance for at least a few minutes. Merlin, she was tired.

"You needn't feel as though you must rush through the process," Remus said mildly, stirring his own tea in a studied manner. "I know it's tiring."

"We've only two more days until holiday is over," Hermione pointed out. "I can't exactly walk up to Professor McGonagall and ask her to please assist me in facilitating my communion with my inner animal."

"She might if you're a cat."

"I'm not a cat," Hermione retorted.

His lips quirked. "Sounds like something a cat might say."

"Not at all," Hermione replied, smiling at him. "Haven't you ever met a one? There's nothing prouder to be a cat than a cat."

Remus huffed a laugh. "I don't associate with that sort, so I suppose I wouldn't know."

"With cats, it will always be the other way round."

He smiled at her fondly, and sipped his tea. "I don't want you to get hurt."

"I won't. Sirius is helping me."

"And an excellent lesson he's imparting as we speak," Remus said wryly. "'Beware the dangers of cleaving too closely to your animal self, Hermione, and now watch as I dig in the mud and chase rabbits.'"

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but stopped herself. Remus had made a joke, or the semblance of one, but there was something in his tone that worried her. "You're worried about him?"

"Always."

"He's been doing ever so much better, though..."

Remus sighed heavily. "Part of him touched that Veil, Hermione. He didn't spontaneously fall into a coma for five months."

Hermione wasn't sure what to say to this. He wasn't speaking condescendingly, precisely, and she  _did_ know that Sirius's magical coma had been without precedent, but he really had been doing better. So she said that again.

Remus pressed his index and thumb into his eyes. "It's just... I came  _so_ close to losing him. Again. And he has moments like today, where he's‒not exactly happy, but close to it, and then I'll see him moments later, and it's as though he's only just gotten out of Azkaban."

"He is devoted to Harry and you," Hermione said slowly. "I just think it'll take time?"

"He's devoted, all right," Remus said quietly. "It's been that way with me since sixth year. He... everything is  _his_ responsibility,  _his_ duty, and he just  _does_  it regardless of what impact it has on him. He just keeps going. He's spent most of the past four months making sure I didn't pull a runner, frankly."

Hermione was silent. What could she even say?

"I think loyalty is ingrained in the deepest part of him," Hermione finally said. "That's one aspect of his inner animal that he hasn't taken on‒rather, it's a reflection of him, I think. I don't know if anyone can help it."

"I know that," said Remus. "It's his best and worst quality. But he's out there in the  _mud_."

"Maybe it's just mud. Maybe he's too much of a child, not too much of a dog," Hermione offered gently.

Remus exhaled loudly, staring into his tea. "I'm afraid for him."

For all this talk about unwavering loyalty and self‒sacrifice, Hermione realized, they had spent a lot of time on Sirius and not very much on Remus. And then she realized.

"Are you afraid for me, too?"

He stiffened slightly. It was answer enough. Nonetheless, he said, "You know that I am."

"Is it  _my_ loyalty you're worried about? That I'll follow Harry to the Department of Mysteries again and that I'll get hurt?"

"You  _did_ get hurt."

"I'm fine now."

"So is Sirius.  _Now_. Would he be if he'd done more than  _touch_ that archway?"

His hands, Hermione noticed, were white. One was clenched into a fist, the other around his teacup so tightly that she thought it might break.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say," Hermione said finally. "We're a war. There's a chance we'll all get hurt, or worse. That doesn't mean I'm not going to fight. Or turn into an Animagus."

"You're  _mine_." His voice was low and raspy.

Hermione knew what he meant. She knew that he was afraid for her, knew that his wolf compelled him to protect her, but that wasn't enough. Not this time, not over this.

"I will  _not_ abandon Harry," she said finally, looking across the table to make eye contact with Remus. " _Ever_. I don't know‒I don't know what you're trying to say here, Remus. Are you hoping to lock me in that secret room until You‒Know‒Who is gone?"

"The thought had occurred to me." His voice was a practiced attempt at his usual dry humor, but Hermione didn't miss the conviction in his tone, and neither did the bond that they shared.

Her eyes narrowed. "You're being irrational."

He didn't like that. "You're in extraordinary danger, Hermione. You, more than anyone except perhaps Harry himself. You know this. We talked about your parents being targets, for Merlin's sake."

"You are not seriously suggesting that I  _run and hide_ , are you?" Hermione's ire was brewing. They had spent the majority of the past few days making love and talking and getting through brief, uncomfortable interludes with others  _together_. The past few days of idyllic happiness had not prepared her for this conversation.

"Of course not," he said, now not even pretending to drink his tea. "I know that won't happen."

"Because it  _shouldn't_ happen," Hermione said passionately. "My place is at Harry's back, it always has been," she said. "I'm a  _Gryffindor_ , Remus. I know I might get hurt‒I know  _you_ might get hurt, and I'm not trying to convince  _you_ to go into hiding!"

"I'm not trying to convince you of anything. And I rather thought that your place was with  _me_."

Hermione's tether on her temper snapped. "And how will you manage that, when you're off fighting You‒Know‒Who and I'm in hiding, exactly? Will I be  _in my place_ then?"

She was provoking him. She knew it, and she didn't care.  _He_ was provoking  _her_ , and she didn't understand how this conversation had taken such an awful, unhappy turn so quickly, and so unexpectedly, but she wasn't going to back down. How could she? He'd been possessive before, but not like  _this_!

He seemed to realize at the same moment as she that they'd gotten far, far off the track. She watched him take several deliberate breaths before responding.

"I lost everything once already," he finally said, very quietly. "And it wasn't even everything, because I didn't have you yet. Hermione, I..." he trailed off, clearly frustrated. "I'm not‒I'm trying not to feel like this, but..."

She was still angry. But the hum in her soul that belonged to him‒really truly, belonged to him‒was alive in her and she could sense him, sense the coils of desperate fear and decade‒old pain that had penetrated their bond.

She too took a deep breath. "I haven't lost everything," she said finally. "But it's felt like it came close, once or twice."

Sending Harry through to the Philosopher's Stone, alone. Creeping through the calls of Hogwarts, little mirror in hand, every terrified breath loud in the darkness, waiting for any sign of the slither of scales. Harry falling a hundred feet from his broomstick. Watching helpless from the sidelines as her dearest friend nearly died, again and again, until finally coming back to her, clutching a dead boy's body, screaming and sobbing.

She blinked several times. "'There is no such thing as bravery; only degrees of fear,'" she quoted softly. She reached out, and she was still angry, but she had tamped it down. "We both have to fight in this war, Remus. We  _both_ have to. And so will Sirius. And Ron, and H‒Harry." Unexpectedly, tears welled up in her eyes, and she looked away, not wanting to see the awful self‒recrimination in his eyes that she knew was there. "And it will be terrible. But we  _must_ do it."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone for your reviews. I really love hearing your thoughts on the story, particularly on bits you found especially interesting or funny. I also appreciate the well wishes for my upcoming move!


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: For fun, not profit.**

**Story Notes: Tried very hard to get one last chapter out before my move this weekend. Hope you enjoy.**

* * *

 

**MOONLIGHT MADE**

**Chapter 7**

Earlier in the day, Remus had tried to pretend that nothing was wrong. Now, he was sitting in the corner chair of his bedroom, hands gripping the armrests, his knee bobbing frenetically, hair falling into his eyes and jaw clenched.

An unhappy coil of dread was building in the pit of Hermione's stomach. It was Easter Sunday. They had spent the majority of the day playing nice with the Weasleys and a few of the Order members who had decided to take advantage of Mrs. Weasley's hot cross buns and roasted lamb. Remus had hardly left her side, and he'd been so focused on her that the possessiveness she'd been wary of hadn't even come into play. They might as well have been alone, for all the attention that he'd paid to anyone else.

But the past two days had been tense. Since their argument in the kitchen, the tension in their bond was undeniable yet both of them were denying it. Remus had paid her his usual attention, and he'd kissed her and had touched her and their sex had been more urgent somehow, a mix of the tender care he'd shown their second time and the desperate passion of their first.

But today was Easter.

She was leaving tomorrow.

"The first Hogsmeade weekend is the last weekend of April," Hermione said finally, the pulsing misery evident in her bond making it difficult to get the words out. "The 26th, I think."

He nodded jerkily. "I'll be there, unless..."

Unless Dumbledore sent him away again. Hermione frowned. She hadn't spoken to Dumbledore again since Tuesday night, although he'd dropped in today for a bit of chocolate cake. Remus had very firmly ignored his presence.

"What will happen to our..." Hermione gestured at the space between them. "To us? Being so far apart?"

"I don't know," Remus admitted. "I've never heard of mates being separated like this before."

"I can try researching it," Hermione offered quietly. "Once I'm back at Hogwarts..."

He shook his head. "There's nothing useful there, not really. One or two books that mention the mating process, but nothing beyond that."

"Oh," Hermione replied dimly. It didn't frequently happen that the Hogwarts library failed her. "You're sure that I won't be allowed to visit?"

From her seat on their bed, she could see his teeth clench. "Dumbledore was particularly clear on that point," he told her. "He thought that it wouldn't be safe, appropriate, or wise, given that you have exams to prepare for."

Mocking self-recrimination colored his words with a bitter tang. They'd only had six days together. _Six_.

"I'll owl," Hermione said. "I'll owl every day."

He looked up at her then, and a faint smile curved his mouth. "You don't need to do that."

Hermione sighed. "It doesn't seem fair."

"It's not."

Remus stood then, stretched stiff limbs, and walked over to sit beside her on the bed. "Dumbledore made the point," he said in a low voice, "that it if our situation were widely known, it could become dangerous."

Hermione furrowed her brow. "Explain."

"There are a lot of popular myths about werewolves," he continued, taking hold of her hand like he had done so many times throughout the day. His fingers swirled patterns into the soft, sensitive skin of her palm. "Such as the fact that a werewolf will do about anything for his mate."

It was as though ice water had crawled into her veins, spreading from her heart to her lungs to her stomach to her toes. "You think that if people knew..." The horrific realization closed up her throat. Oh _god_.

"It's possible they might try to use you against me," Remus said, sounding more calm than she knew he actually was. "That's why Dumbledore has been so displeased. Part of the reason, anyway."

Hermione twisted to face him. "And because you're in the Order..."

Remus nodded. "Dumbledore thinks that if you were in danger, I'd be a liability to the cause."

"But you'd _never_ compromise the Order!" Hermione cried out passionately, clutching his hand and pulling it to her chest. "You'd _never_ \--how could he think that?"

Remus watched her evenly. "Wouldn't I?"

She stared at him.

"It's not all mythology, Hermione." His voice was quiet and his shame was palpable; she could sense it in the air like a kind of acrid, infectious smoke. "I _don't_ know what I might do. Dumbledore is right to be angry."

"I don't believe it," Hermione said shortly. "You _wouldn't_ , Remus. I know you wouldn't."

"The same way you might have thought I wouldn't proposition a student?"

Hermione stilled. It felt like her heart had stopped. "You _didn't_."

"Didn't I?"

An odd mix of directionless anger and sadness was welling in her gut. "I'm sorry if it feels that way to you, but I felt like it was a mutual decision."

"You couldn't have known what you were getting into. I did. And I did it anyway."

It felt like he'd punched her. She dropped her head to look at her lap, her heart suddenly racing and her mouth dry. He couldn't--he didn't _regret_ it, surely? The presence of him in her mind was there; it was solid and sure and it felt the same as it had from the beginning, except that the edges seemed frayed somehow, as though the stress they were feeling was a kind of ivy, attaching itself to their pristine, unshaken bond and infiltrating it.

"Do you wish you hadn't?"

She was proud of the way her voice didn't tremble.

A long, drawn-out exhalation. "No. I couldn't possibly regret it."

Relief spiraled through her. "Okay, then," Hermione breathed, hating how pathetically afraid she'd been that he would demur. "I don't believe that you'd give up information that could hurt the cause, Remus. I _don't_ believe it." She didn't give him a chance to disagree. "But there's no point in not being careful. I obviously won't say anything, and I'll ask Ginny and the boys not to, either." She wrinkled her nose. "Not that it's their business regardless."

"Most definitely not," he muttered darkly. "God. I wish this were simpler."

Hermione swallowed. "Me too. I don't want to--I don't _want_ to pretend like you're not there, like I don't have you--"

He whirled to face her, bursting into motion like a sprinter at the start of the gun. His eyes were bright amber in the darkness, his gaze narrowed, and she knew that she had somehow provoked him. "I _am_ yours. I will always be _yours_."

"I know that," she replied faintly.

His hand shot out, gripped her chin and made her look at him. "Say it."

Like it did every time he spoke to her in that commanding tone, like he couldn't stop himself from demanding of her what he wanted, desire curled through her abdomen. "I'm yours," she said breathlessly, completing the little ritual that they had somehow developed over the past week.

He surged forward, kissed her roughly. "Don't want you to go," he told her, speaking lowly against her lips and teeth, his breath puffing into her mouth with each fierce, angry word. He pulled her lip hard into his mouth, bit down on it, and she yelped a bit.

He liked the sound, and wrapped his arms around her. "Want _everyone_ to know you're mine," he was saying now, possessive hands at her back and sides and hot, demanding mouth moving to her

His voice was doing strange things to her. Hermione threw her head back as he dragged his teeth roughly over the tendons of her neck, over her collarbone, over the scabbed-over mark he'd made. She twitched and jerked, half in pleasure, half in pain as he sucked the damaged flesh into his mouth. Her hands scrabbled for purchase against him. How had this escalated so quickly?

Just as rapidly as his initial assault , he released her skin and pressed his face into her neck, arms holding her tightly. "I never want you to go," he rasped.

The sudden lump in her throat made Hermione realized that she was very close to tears. The thought of separation from him--of true, unconquerable physical distance--made her heart hurt and the bond in her mind throb with anticipated pain. How _could_ she leave him?

She had to get closer. She twisted into him, swinging a leg over his thighs so that she could straddle him. His face still pressed against her neck, she ran her hands over his hair and pressed her lips to whatever part of him she could reach: his ear, his jaw, his temple. The bond between them hummed and sang and she just wanted to be _closer_.

It didn't take long for him to strip them both of their clothing. He was rough and uncontrolled, hauling her body towards him and onto the bed, slipping his fingers up her thighs to touch her labia without preamble. His breathing was harsh and loud to match hers and she gasped when two of his fingers pushed inside her.

She was wet, and he thrust and twisted his fingers only for a few moments before withdrawing, swiping his thumb over her clit, and bending down to kiss her.

It was a devouring kiss. Their legs and arms twisted as they fumbled for the center of the bed, and his intent was so clear, so demanding, that Hermione simply allowed him to arrange her as he wished, her body on fire at his touch, adrenaline and lust coursing through her as he dominated and manipulated her body.

She loved this. She loved seeing him undone and unrestrained; taking his pleasure from her and _making_ her take hers; her body his to master and to worship. The thought made her heart pound and her abdomen contract with arousal.

He broke away, panting, and leaned over her, rolling his hips so that he settled between her legs, his cock hot and hard and pressing against her slick entrance. "You're mine," he mumbled, lining himself up and pushing inside without hesitation, pressing his mouth into her shoulder and dragging his teeth over her. "I'm going to fuck you."

Hermione shuddered. The combination of his body invading hers and his low, harsh voice saying vulgar things in her ear was overwhelming. She thought she might understand, now, why Remus liked her to talk to him during sex.

He set a quick pace, wasting no time in easing her or in waiting for her to ask him to move. His hips snapped into hers at a steady, hard clip, and his chest was pressed into hers, and his hands on either side of her. "You feel--fucking good," he growled at her, digging his forearms under her thighs and forcing them high up over his shoulders, opening her wide, and the added depth and power that the new angle lent him sent bright flashes of sensation through her.

She couldn't think. She was climbing towards orgasm so quickly, so wildly, and he was gripping her thighs in a way that would surely create bruises, and his expression was dark and furrowed and concentrated, and the heat that was pulsing in her was making her toes curl and her heart stutter.

"R-Remus," she gasped out, winded, casting her unoccupied hands around around for anything to hold onto as he drove her body towards completion. Her knuckles snapped into the wooden headboard. The sharp flare of pain made her gasp, and it was combined with one of his hands dropping down to pinch and rub her clit, and she reflexively clutched at the wood, trying to find something, anything to ground her. Her nails bit into the finish.

"Your cunt," he said, breathless himself but not faltering in his fast, punishing rhythm, "is perfect. Want to be--inside you, fucking your pretty little cunt, all the time."

Hermione shattered. She shouted and cried out, vision going white, as her body was torn violently into orgasm, dragged into it by the sound of his voice saying those dark things to her, by the wet, organic sounds of their bodies colliding.

He didn't stop. Instead, he pulled her limp, quivering legs down from his shoulders, still thrusting into her contracting quim, and dragged her torso up to him, kissing her ferociously.

Weak-limbed and still coming down, Hermione felt like a strange, thirty-party observer as he set his big hands around her hips, twisted her around to face the headboard, and placed her hands back on the stretch of wood that she'd--had she _gouged_ the wood?

The moment he let go of her, she sagged, her thighs shaking and her chest heaving. God. Tiredly, she leaned forward until her upper arms rested against the headboard, the carvings of snakes and leaves and hounds rampant making impressions in her skin.

He positioned himself again behind her, moving her legs apart wide enough so that he could slip back inside her. His mouth came down on her shoulder, the one he hadn't marked before, and the feel of him behind her--so like their first time--stoked again the flagging fire in her blood. She was still humming, still flooded with the electricity of her orgasm, but he pressed inside her again, grunting harshly against her skin where his teeth were set, and it didn't seem to matter anymore that she was tired or oversensitive.

His urgency was obvious now. He pounded into her, his thighs flexing and trembling behind her, one arm around her waist, one holding the headboard himself, and she could do nothing but try to breathe, managing nothing more than short, panting gasps and whimpers.

Her entire world had narrowed to a focus on this moment; this time; each place where their bodies met and their sweat mingled and they were _one_ physically and through their bond. She was climbing again, nearing a second orgasm, and the weakness in her limbs was nothing in the face of her desperate need to keep this going.

He didn't last much longer. His teeth bit down hard as he came, his back arching and his arm tightening around her, yanking her up off the headboard as he jerked his hips spasmodically and the shock of it, the sudden violence of it, was enough to send her over the edge again.

They fell hard into the mattress, his body mostly cushioning hers but for a sudden knock of her skull to his shoulder that her hair didn't protect. He was breathing in great, heaving gasps like a blown horse. He was still inside her, but he slipped out as she slid from his chest to his side.

Hermione fancied that she could hear her own heartbeat and the rush of blood in her veins. She lay on her back, nestled between his body and his arm, their legs twisted together.

It might have been a minute or twenty before Remus reached across his chest to trail a finger from her sweaty forehead, down her jaw and neck and sternum. "I'm going to miss you," he told her quietly, his breathing having finally begun to slow.

Hermione shifted a bit so that she could look at him. "It'll be over before we know it," she said optimistically, flattening her palm over his heart. "Summer term always flies," she continued. "And we'll have Hogsmeade in a few weeks."

"'We'll always have Hogsmeade?'"

She mustered a smile and nestled her nose into his chest. "And Grimmauld Place?"

"That's significantly less cheery."

"It is, isn't it?" Hermione mused. "Maybe by the time term ends I'll be ready to try the transformation."

"I don't doubt it."

"What do you think I'll be?"

"A jarvey."

Hermione laughed. "A _jarvey_?"

"Mm. Don't think I don't notice that you like it when I say all those nasty things."

Hermione grinned. "Learned it from you, I suppose?"

"Reckon so. You are very easily led, you know."

Hermione laughed again, and Remus began humming absently under his breath, rubbing his feet against hers.

"Is that what I think it is?" Hermione asked after a moment, delighted at the hints of a light tenor that she hadn't known existed.

He smiled at her and leaned over to her ear.

His voice was pleasant and clear; he had the kind of effortless singing voice that felt unstudied and natural. Hermione could not help but flush brilliantly at his breath tickling her ear as he sang:

"Moonlight and love songs, never out of date. Hearts full of passion, jealousy, and hate. Woman needs man, and man must have his mate. That no one can deny."

He finished his little bit of "As Time Goes By" by pressing a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to her ear. She squirmed a bit and twisted away from his grasp, and he laughed at her.

"I like your voice," she told him, feeling almost bizarrely shy, and his eyes glowed warmly at her.

"I like you," he replied simply, and it hit her again: _she was going away_.

She heaved a sigh and curled into his embrace. "I'll owl every day," she promised again, her eyes drooping, and his grip on her tightened.

* * *

 

"All right there, Hermione?"

Hermione blinked once, twice. Harry was watching her cautiously from across the compartment. She swallowed. "Fine," she managed after a moment. Her heart ached, and she could actually feel the physical distance between her and Remus. With every minute that passed, their stretched-taffy bond grew tighter and tighter. The corner of her mind reserved for Remus was _miserable_.

"'S'alright if you're not," said Harry kindly. "Remus looked pretty, well, awful at the platform."

Hermione smiled shakily. "It just--it actually hurts, you know," she said after a moment.

He looked sympathetic. "A lot's changed in ten days, eh?"

It was such a understatement that Hermione couldn't help but laugh a little. "Yes. Speaking of which, Harry... you can't say anything about it. About me and Remus, I mean."

Harry furrowed his brow. "Why not? 'S'not like he's our teacher anymore."

"It's not that," Hermione said uncomfortably. "It might endanger the Order, that's all. So we'd rather be cautious."

Harry looked confused, and opened his mouth to respond, but the compartment door opened before he had a chance.

Ron stuck his head in. "I've been looking all over," he announced grumpily, sidling inside with a brown paper bag that had Mrs. Weasley all over it. "Didn't see you on the platform."

"We got here early," Hermione replied, keeping cautious. She had seen Ron only twice since the day after the full moon. He'd very carefully ignored her both times. "Professor Moody didn't want to deal with the crowd."

Ron settled his long, lanky frame next to Harry and peered inside his bag of leftovers. He wrinkled his nose at the contents. "Dunno why you call him 'professor,'" he commented. "Since he never was, was he?"

The sudden happiness that bloomed in her chest was almost enough to outweigh the pain of her separation from Remus. "Guess he wasn't," she said dumbly.

Ron selected a lumpy sandwich from his bag, offered it cursorily to Harry, who declined, and began to unwrap it. "All right then, Hermione?"

Hermione couldn't help the smile that broke out. "Ron, you're--you're not upset anymore?"

He took a huge bite of the sandwich and chewed thoughtfully for a few minutes. "Cad eg'adly cha'd an'fing, cad I?"

Hermione fought not to let her revulsion at his manners show. "Well, no..."

He swallowed, and then actually looked at her. "Had a lot of time to think about it," he told her frankly. "What with Harry spending most of his time at Headquarters and me stuck at the Burrow."

Hermione winced. "Ron..."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Forget it. Point is, I know just as well as anyone what they say about werewolves," he said, sounding almost shockingly calm. "Lupin always seemed to, I dunno, not fit the mold. S'pose he was bound to fit it one of these days." He wrinkled his nose. "Not that I want to know any of the details, mind."

It had been an emotional day, to be sure. An emotional _week_. Hermione felt tears welling up even as she couldn't help but smile at Ron's alarmed expression. She was so _relieved_.

"Guess I just figured," Ron continued awkwardly. He shrugged. "You know, that we'd..." he trailed off a bit, and the tips of his ears reddened. "Reckon we weren't meant to be after all."

A year ago, or even a few months ago, Ron's admission that he _had_ believed they were meant to be together, that they were fated for each other, would have set her heart alight. She'd have been incandescent with joy.

But now it simply made her sad. "Oh, Ron..."

He shook his head. "Don't." He took another bite of his sandwich. Mercifully, he chewed and swallowed before speaking again. "Dunno if I can really be _happy_ about it, mind, but I know when a cause is lost." He met her eyes and suddenly, a wicked grin split his. "Always did have a thing for teacher, eh?"

It was too much. The events of the day had left her in a whirlwind state of emotion, and Ron's lightheartedness, and acceptance, and Harry's gentle concern--it all combined and she began laughing and crying at the same time.

Through the blur of tears, Harry and Ron both were staring at her like she'd quite lost her marbles.

"S-sorry," she gasped out. "I'm just--so _happy_!"

Ron leaned forward and slung a very long arm across the compartment, gingerly patting her on the shoulder with the tips of his fingers. "There, there," he said weakly, looking over at Harry pleadingly.

"What d'you want _me_ to do?" Harry whispered.

The tears subsided a bit, leaving her just laughing. She wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry--I'm just--emotional," she explained stiltedly.

"Didn't notice, mate," Ron said, attempting to tease her a bit.

She smiled wetly at him. "Thanks, Ron."

His smile faded a bit, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement. "'Course."

* * *

 

**To:**

**RJ Lupin**

**Grimmauld Place, London**

**31 March 1997**

**Library, Hogwarts Castle**

**22:45**

_R:_

_Train arrived on schedule despite at least one of its passengers wishing desperately that its engine would change direction and return to London. Dinner was served and announcements announced and I pretended to still have homework left to do for tomorrow so that I could get away and write to you without a certain Miss Weasley peering over my shoulder. I suspect you know the kinds of things she is looking to ask me, so I shan't repeat them here._

_I suppose that you spent a lot of time here in the library as a student. I have a table that all the years know is mine; it's a lovely table, rather close to the Restricted section in a bit of a recessed area next to Charms History and Charm Development. Do you know the spot? It has a very nice window that overlooks the cloisters and in the springtime it must be one of the loveliest places in the world, because Professor Sprout takes her younger years to plant flowers down below and I can smell them from here--the flowers that is, not the students._

_Tonight, though, the window is shut and it's quite dark out. I did look over one of my essays, of course--a Charms one, because I spotted a really fascinating looking book having to do with long-form animation--but then I sat here wondering what to write to you. It seems like you would have had a table too, when you were at school. Perhaps a spot where you wouldn't be noticed, like I have, where you planned mischief like I planned the D.A. last year. I like to think so, anyway; because maybe then I could sit there and it might be like we were together, but that you'd just gone off to search for a book and would be back soon._

_H_

Hermione let herself into Gryffindor Tower with a mumbled "Excalibur" and ducked inside. For the first time she could remember, the warm, welcoming room did not immediately assail her with the sense of home. Home was Remus Lupin.

The Common Room was mostly empty; the long day of travel and the early start of classes tomorrow had sent most students to bed by now, which was just as well since it was nearly midnight. She'd posted her letter to Remus in the Owlery and had ambled her way back to the dorm; she wasn't joking when she had written to Remus that she was trying to avoid Ginny.

But, ah. She was not so lucky. Ron's sister was sitting on one of the squashy red armchairs by the fire, legs up over the side as she read one of Mrs. WEasley's salacious romance novels that she must've nicked.

"There you are," the youngest Weasley said without looking up from her book. "Honestly, Hermione, a lesser person than myself might have been offended with all your sneaking around."

Well, there was nothing for it now.

Hermione walked over and sat down in the chair across from Ginny and looked at her warily. "I haven't been sneaking."

"So what do you call disappearing left and right at Grim--at Headquarters? And running off to the library the first chance you got here?" Ginny was peering down at her over the cover of the book, her big brown eyes bright with curiosity and mischief.

Hermione's gaze drifted to the book she was reading.

_Vilkas Vargo and the Vestal Virgin_

Something unpleasant simmered in her stomach. Vilkas Vargo? Hermione looked closer at the mostly-naked male model that was grinning darkly from the cover, flexing his muscles with each wink. "Tell me that's not what I think it is."

Ginny turned the book around to peer at its cover, grinning wickedly. "S'pose that depends on what you think it is. _If_ you thought it was one of Mum's stash of romance novels, you'd be right. _If_ you thought it was part of a _very_ scandalous collection of stories about my friend Vilkas, werewolf, who is on the prowl for his one true love... you'd _also_ be right."

Hermione's face flamed. "Ginny--!"

The other girl laughed. "What?"

Hermione shook her head. "That was your _mum's_?"

Ginny nodded. "Found it when I was going bonkers because I wasn't allowed back to Headquarters. Mum reckoned there might be _another_ werewolf looking for a mate," she explained sarcastically.

Hermione glanced around the Common Room nervously.

"No one's here, just me," said Ginny cheerfully. "So. I'm not letting you run away now. Tell me everything."

"Ginny..."

"Hermione," she mocked back. "Come on. I'm not upset or anything! It's just wild that this--" she motioned to the book she'd been reading, and at Vilkas who was now looking quite bored without anyone's attention--"kind of thing can actually, you know, happen. It's so _sordid_. And Mum's cooled down a bit, you don't have to worry. She's just stubborn you know, a Prewett."

Hermione smiled weakly. "Ginny... it's a bit, you know, _private_?"

Ginny threw her head back against the arm of the chair dramatically. "Merlin! Aren't you a _girl_? And don't you not have any other girl friends? I've been waiting a week to talk to you about this, give me _something_! What's it like?"

Maybe it was the fact that she'd been separated from Remus for twelve hours now, and that there was a rock in her stomach and tension in her mind because of the unnatural distance between them, but Hermione finally just relented. "Right now, it's awful," she told Ginny frankly.

This was disappointing to Ginny. "Awful?"

Hermione nodded. "There's a... well, a _bond_ between us. And we're so far apart, and it just... hurts."

Ginny looked enthralled. "It _hurts_? Cor, that is so romantic."

Hermione glared at her. "It's not _romantic_. It's awful. And I won't be able to visit for--you know--full moons. I'm not going to see him for four weeks. It's _awful_ , Ginny."

Some of the excitement fled the other girl's face, replaced by something thoughtful. "You'll see him next Hogsmeade weekend?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes."

"That's not terribly far away," said Ginny bracingly. "I mean, only a few weeks, right?"

Hermione sank back into her chair. "Feels like it's ages."

"Well, tell me what happened after we all left last week," said Ginny eagerly. "Mum was in a right state, let me tell you. No one really knew what was going on at first but after the howling and stuff stopped, you know, when you went down there, Dad explained what he thought the situation probably was."

Hermione winced. The status of her relationship with Lupin was not something she wanted Mr. Weasley to be thinking about.

"Mum was all set to go raring down there, but Dad and Ron stopped her," Ginny continued matter-of-factly. "Can you imagine? She's just barmy enough to do it--walk into a room with a werewolf in her dressing gown, that is, and start threatening him. Oh, Mum."

"She waited until the next day for that," Hermione mumbled uncharitably, remembering the awful scene in the kitchen that morning.

"I heard her," said Ginny. "It was awful. Dad was really upset after that, because, you know, he really likes Lupin, we all do, and of course Fred and George weren't happy either. Moony, you know?"

"I know."

"And _then_ , when Sirius said that she wasn't allowed to take you back to the Burrow forcibly--you did know that part, right? It was after you went to bed, but Mum and us didn't, and she was really upset, you know, thinking that you were about to be taken advantage of, and no one was thinking about you--that kind of stuff--and she was going to basically Side-Along you to the Burrow, and Sirius wouldn't let her into your room. He blocked it somehow, and the house listened to him."

Hermione didn't know this part, and she wasn't sure how to take it. On the one hand, Mrs. Weasley's interference was definitely _not_ appreciated, but on the other, she knew that it was well-intentioned. Mrs. Weasley had been honestly concerned for her, not angry as she'd thought later.

"So what happened after we all left? Did you know--you know--go wild?"

The idea actually made Hermione laugh. "No," she said, now smiling at Ginny, because somehow--miraculously--talking about it really was making her feel better. "No, Sirius knocked on my door and talked to me a bit. He basically said that he knew I wasn't stupid, that I'd probably figured out what was going on, and that it would need to be my call whether I wanted to even talk to Remus about it. He said that Remus was ready to basically never see me again if that's what I wanted."

Ginny's mouth dropped open. " _No_!"

Hermione nodded. "So I wasn't having that of course, and so I told him that I had questions, and Sirius laughed and said, 'I bet you do,' in that way of talking he has, and he told me to go down to the library in ten minutes. And so I did."

"And _then_ did you go wild?"

"Ginny, _no_. We _talked_. And it was--" Hermione broke off, remembering the conversation that now seemed so long ago--"it was _so_ uncomfortable. It was incredibly awkward. I felt terrible for him. For Remus, I mean."

"Cor, I can imagine," said Ginny sympathetically. "Didn't really think about it to be honest, but poor Lupin, right? I mean, how embarrassing to be that old--"

"--he's not _that_ old--"

"--and realize that your mate is a teenager," Ginny continued on blithely.

"Yes, well," Hermione said uncomfortably. "Anyway, we talked for quite a while."

"And _then_?"

Hermione couldn't help it. She blushed brilliantly and Ginny let out a loud cackle of laughter.

"I _knew_ it! You _did_ go wild," the redhead said, beaming at her. "Was it good?"

" _Ginny_!"

"Well, was it?" she persisted stubbornly. "I mean, he is _older_. Nothing like the boys here." Ginny wrinkled her nose. "I bet it was ace."

Hermione sighed heavily. "Ginny, I--"

"If you don't tell me, I'll assume it was terrible," Ginny interrupted wickedly. "I'll tell you about mine. Michael and I didn't really do _that_ much until last spring, but Dean and me--"

"It was wonderful," Hermione said very quickly. "I really don't want to say much, but, it was--" she broke off with a sigh. "This bond we have--it's hard to explain, Ginny, but it just makes-- _everything_ \--lovely."

Ginny grinned a slow grin. "Can you like--feel him through the bond, or something? Can you do all kinds of kinky things with it?"

Hermione sent her a withering glare. Ginny sighed. "Well, I suppose all this amazing sex you're having explains why you kept vanishing over hols," she said practically. "I'm jealous."

"Well, he's mine."

Ginny laughed. "Your soul mate," she said with a little sigh. "It really is romantic, Hermione."

A bubble of warmth spread in her chest. Hermione suddenly felt quite bad that she had been avoiding her friend. Why hadn't she guessed that Ginny would be so supportive? Why hadn't she realized how lovely it would be to talk about this special thing with someone?

"Thanks, Ginny," she finally said, reaching forward to clasp the other girl's hand. "I appreciate it."

Ginny smiled at her brilliantly. "Seriously though, can you do any really randy things with that bond?"

* * *

 

It was very late by the time Hermione climbed up to the sixth year dorms, yawning and worn-out. She undressed for bed mechanically, stumbled over to her four-poster and flopped on the coverlet.

She winced when something hard pressed into her lower back, and stiffened at the crinkle of parchment. It couldn't be...?

She twisted around, shut her curtains, and cast a quick _Lumos_.

There it was. A thick yellow parchment envelope, clearly holding more than just a letter. On the front in black ink was her name, written in the familiar elegant, utilitarian hand that she remembered from her third year.

**To:**

**Hermione Granger**

**Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts Castle**

He must have sent it the moment she'd left! Hermione eagerly opened the letter. A small, square package covered in brown paper fell into her hand as she drew out the letter.

**31 March 1997**

**Library, Grim Old Place**

_Hermione,_

_It seems my misery was so overbearing within a few moments of your departure that our friend Mr P felt compelled to take me aside and set me straight. 'Mr M,' he said, in that disappointed, condescending manner of his that I've forcibly grown to love, 'don't tell me you ignored Messrs Weasley's gift?'_

_Ashamed to admit that I had, in fact, quite forgotten the gift--and to be perfectly honest, witnessing Mr P the Younger's amphibious appendage rather put me off another WWW product--I was forced to accept Mr P's well-earned censure for the oversight._

' _Mr M, you disappoint me,' Mr P said sadly, 'I contributed to that gift. I slaved over that gift! Messrs Weasley prostrated themselves before me--'_

' _Mr P,' interrupted I, 'bowing before us is something they do frequently and voluntarily.'_

' _Such is the price of fame,' agreed Mr P sadly. 'But I digress. Open the damn gift, you ponce.'_

_See enclosed gift. Included is one half of a set of two-way mirrors. You may remember the set that Mr P gave to Mr P the Younger (which, as I've been incessantly informed, have seen rather less use this year than Mr P would prefer). This set has been modified to reflect scent and touch as well as light. To reach me, tap twice with your wand and say 'M.' Mine is currently set for 'Hermione,' but Mr P has promised that you will be receiving a juvenile nickname of your very own once your claws come out to play._

_Yours always,_

_M_

A smile spreading her face and her heart pounding with excitement, Hermione pulled open the brown paper and a small, unassuming mirror slipped onto her bed cover. She immediately cast _Muffliato_ \--for all that she disapproved of the Half-Blood Prince, that _was_ a rather useful spell--and spelled her curtains shut.

She tapped the mirror twice and whispered, "Moony."

The mirror's edges glowed a bit as the magic activated. What if he were asleep? What if she'd disturbed him from something?

She held her breath and suddenly Remus's dear, tired face swam into view, his eyes half-lidded with sleep but smiling brilliantly nonetheless. "Hello, love."

Hermione beamed. "Hi."

"Found our gift, I see," Remus commented, settling himself back on what looked to be his bed-- _their_ bed.

"Did I wake you?"

"Glad you did. Burning the candle at both ends?"

"Something like that. Gossiping with Ginny, if you want the truth."

He grimaced. "Don't want."

Hermione giggled. "She was actually... she was rather lovely, Remus," she told him softly. "I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised--she and I have been friends since third year, you know. And she was still _Ginny_ , of course--totally irreverent and inappropriate and a bit vulgar, but it was nice--it was _really_ nice how kind she was tonight."

Remus's answering smile turned into a yawn. "It doesn't surprise me. That girl will do the opposite of anything Molly wants or says, and will get away with it besides. Bit's got her entire family wrapped around her finger."

"She does, doesn't she?" Hermione agreed fondly. "I loved your letter."

He grinned. "Padfoot kept telling me not to poncy it up. He's started coming up with names for you, by the way."

Hermione winced. "Do I want to know?"

"I suppose that depends on how you feel about 'Claws,' since that's all he's got so far. He's very excited about all of this."

She snorted. "I'm not going to call myself 'Claws,' Remus. That sounds like I'm in a gang."

"Well, he wasn't entirely joking about inducting you into the Marauders, so how does the Muggle phrase go? 'If the shoe fits?'"

"I hardly think I'm needed. Don't you have two disciples right there in London already?" Hermione leaned back and snuggled under her bed covers, turning on her side to lean the mirror up against a pillow.

"Oh yes," Remus agreed mildly. "Padfoot is quite enjoying the attention."

Hermione laughed. "I'm glad he's happy."

"Me too."

Remus's serious tone sobered her quickly. She opened her mouth to speak, but yawned instead. "Do the mirrors really transmit scent and touch?"

"Scent, definitely," Remus confirmed for her easily. "You smell lovely as always."

She blushed, and then touched a finger to the cool surface. "Try it?"

She saw his hand reaching for the mirror, obscuring his face, and then--

His warm, roughened fingertip touched hers. It wasn't quite like real life--she could still perceive the barrier between them, but she could also feel _him_. They were no closer physically--her bond still ached--but even this semblance of touch was enough to ease the strain. "What a _brilliant_ bit of magic," she breathed out.

Remus's finger dropped away, and was replaced by his lips, which kissed her fingertip very gently. "It is," he agreed quietly, and she _felt_ his breath on her skin.

She blinked very rapidly. "I miss you."

"'All days are nights to see till I see thee,'" Remus murmured. 'And nights bright days when dreams do show thee to me.' Get some sleep, my love, and I'll see you again in the morning."

* * *

 

**Author's Note: So many of you were so curious about Fred & George's gift. I hope it didn't disappoint? :)**


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